Nevadan Cleanse
by wafflepudding
Summary: The conception and cessation of Madness Combat's Nevada. Cover by Jackie Cai (Spectra 6234 on DeviantArt).
1. The Auditor

Ash.

A forest had been thick with life. Leaves had aspirated the golden sunlight, unbreakably fragile shafts that illuminated each movement below. Vines had been arteries carrying the blood of the forest with a ceaseless pulse. Omnipresent insects had yielded that the earth beneath should never be still. The sun would fall to sate the trees, the trees would fall to sate the fauna, and the fauna would fall to sate the trees again. Death gave way to life. Chaos reigned supreme.

There were some who did not like disorder. A forest was not ordered, nor was it clean, nor was it perfect. Ash, though, was pure. Where once there was a vexingly inefficient machine, there was now a thin layer of white.

Forests were not the only agitators of ITS neurosis. Apes aspirated the volatile air, their arteries pulsed with disgusting blood, and the mites on their skins yielded that their epidermises should never be still. IT was the fire that cleansed the forest, and IT would be the fire to cleanse humanity.

10,000 Years Later

"I'm only doing this for the education, you know. I'm more than a brute with a gun. I'll make something of myself after I finish these six service years, you'll see. The rest of you Agency sheep probably finish your shifts and gamble until you drink yourselves to sleep. You know what I do? Night classes. See, I'm getting free courses at the best university in Nevada! You need more than a gun and some muscle to do that." The young man took another puff of his cigarette. "I don't assume you're doing anything after the Agency."

The older fellow beside him scoffed and lit his fag. "I still say you won't achieve anything. The world is getting hard to live in, and you need more than some free college education to succeed. What, do you think I don't know things too? I went to primary. I can list facts all night. For example: Did you know, long before humans got here, they think Nevada was a forest?"

"Who thinks that?" The young man countered, and the older fellow shrugged.

"I dunno. They." He took another drag of black smoke.

"Cigarettes are going to kill you, you know. I only smoke a little bit, but you? You're a dead man." Said the young one. He sucked down plumes of the hot vapor, every molecule of smoke spinning and drifting wildly down his lungs, lodging in the recesses, sticking to his teeth, embedding in his throat. "They cause cancer, you know. They're disgusting. Ever heard a smoker's cough? See the spit flying all over the place? Some smokers get a hole right in their throat, you know." Finally, the cigarette dropped to the earth, ground by a heel into pure ash. Then the young man drew another.

A figure appeared before them two, ITS visage flickering black.

"The hell did you get in here?" Demanded the older man, raising his gun. He quickly spoke into his headset. "This is the West Gate, we have an anti-teleportation perimeter breach, please respond, over."

IT eyed the gun aimed at ITS chest. The piece was perfect. Hard carbon steel bore the markless mark of ritual cleaning, and there was not a smudge to be found on the entire weapon. When the trigger was pulled, a bolt would move and a bullet would leave the barrel with the perfect precision of a calculated spin. IT was pleased.

Beside the gun was a man who'd just removed a cigarette from its box and was preparing to light it. This act would be very unclean, and very displeasing. IT held ITS hand towards the young man and took the very tip of the cigarette between two fingers. The cigarette was lit, and the young man began to enjoy.

"I asked how you got in here." Said the older man.

"You'd better not just stand there. The Agency isn't one of those rundown organizations that gets queasy at the sight of something ethereal. You'd better fuck off or get killed."

The lit end of the young man's cigarette became black, and black flames raced through tobacco, past the young man's lips, and up through his nose, eyes, and pores. 47 bullets passed harmlessly through ITS ghostly figure, so it destroyed the messy consciousness of the older fellow and replaced it with obedience. Both men stood straighter. Their aspiration stopped, their pulsing arteries ceased, and the mites on their skins immediately died. The gate slid open to allow The Auditor through.


	2. The Clown

Conversation stopped when he shouted. He had been noticed again and he'd have to leave. The silence would have embarrassed him a few years ago. He would have apologized loudly and walked away, leaving his balls and a generous tip on the table.

But now, he sat in silence and let the conversation gradually return. He cursed when he looked down and saw his coffee spilt on his lap. He focused for a moment, trying to feel the heat, but shook his head at the futility.

He used what was left of his coffee to wash down the pills. Already he was at thrice the intended dosage, but he was not concerned about the side effects. "Discoloration. As if I would otherwise die pretty." Then he took a stand and left nothing but the meal's price on the table. He no longer cared to tip.

He hurried back to his house, hoping not to shout again. The spasms were the only things that hurt these days, and they were bad enough when he was alone. Around others, he'd be concerned for and bothered. "Screw people." He said under his breath.

Then he was home, and bottles of medicine waited for him. He downed two pills and splashed his face with water. Only four times over dosage, he'd be fine.

He looked in the mirror. He did see it, come to think of it. His hair was thinning, and emerging from the scalp were a few green strands. They came out painlessly. So did some other hair. Then his hands were painlessly hitting his face, and then he broke the mirror painlessly against his fist. He only stopped himself just before drawing a shard of mirror across his hand. He dropped the piece with disgust and smeared blood onto a towel.

"There was nothing quite like television to get rid of your brain." He said, taking a seat on a ragged black couch. It was unusual for him to find a sticky note on the screen. He retrieved it and went to the window, opening the drapes and then the filthy glass itself just to let in enough light.

_Stop taking pills,_ read the note. He shook his head. "I don't remember leaving this," he said. "I sure got to be one of those nut jobs, didn't I?" He crumpled the note and threw it out the window, then shut it and redrew the curtain. He went to watch television again, but another note was on the screen. "God, I hate this brain." It was the same note, so he tore it in half and dropped it to the floor. Then he picked the remote up from his couch and took another seat. The yellow sticky was back. "I should've known the shit wouldn't go away. Fuck it, then." He said, and turned on the television.

It flickered to life, casting a pale glow on the drab interior. Nevadan Homes was on. He didn't much care for it, but good TV wasn't worth finding another channel. He lay with eyes half closed as the contractors built houses behind a yellow note.

"So we'll use white marble for the island, and we'll complement it with these skygrey tiles, and Hugh Tricks needs to stop popping his fucking insanity pills." Said the contractor on TV.

"Hugh Tricks," Hugh said. "That's my name."

"Which will all look great over this varnished hardwood, and Hugh Tricks isn't insane at all, is he Marsha?" Said the contractor.

"Not one bit, Jim, he needs to get off his meds right away, and I love all of this cabinet space." Marsha replied.

Hugh flicked off the television and stood up. "I'll teach you to tell me what to do, that I will. I'll take as many pills as I goddamn please." He walked to his cabinet and pulled it open, fishing out one of the many bottles. The television came back on.

"Now, Hugh, you'd better not take those pills." Marsha said sternly. "Someone will be quite unhappy with you."

Hugh opened the cap and poured the entire bottle into his hand. With the pills came a thousand white maggots, burrowing in and out of the drugs, chewing on white powder, and leaving behind trails of blood. He downed them all and opened his cabinet again, searching for his last pint of Jack. He couldn't even taste it, so it didn't burn a bit when he brought away the empty bottle.

"Hugh, you've made the wrong choice." Jim said. But this time, his voice had taken on a sinister tone. "Don't try to ignore me. You'll never beat the disease."

Hugh moved to the living room and shoved the television off of its stand.

"Hugh, honey, you've been running from me since you were a kid. Don't you think it's time you faced your fears?" Marsha asked.

Hugh wanted to say that he wasn't afraid of anything, but since he was a child the doctors had told him that if he ignored the illness it would get better, that the hallucinations would go away if he didn't respond.

"Your doctors are all dead, Hugh. Those old bags of shit are rotting in the ground by now." Said Jim.

"Truly, Hugh, Jim is right. We're not going away. You should embrace the gifts we've given you. There's no more pain." Marsha tried to calm him.

"You used to be weak." Jim's voice had grown very deep and very angry. "Back when the treatments were working, back when you had feelings. Pain, fear, embarrassment. You ungrateful man, you weak mortal, you soft flesh."

Hugh missed his pain, fear, and embarrassment.

"No you don't, Hugh. You don't miss anything anymore. Longing went away last year or so. And why would you want a silly thing like embarrassment standing in your way? Did you want to be embarrassed when you had a spasm in that restaurant? You should be glad, Hugh; you're free to do anything you like without the hindrance of pain or doubt."

Hugh's vision shifted, and he realized that he'd never before taken this much medicine at once before. He didn't feel any nausea, but suddenly he was vomiting on the floor.

"See, Hugh..." Hugh couldn't hear the rest: He'd just fallen loudly against the wall. In his distorted vision he saw the TV, screen cracked, sticky note smoldering black. Jim and Marsha were unnervingly sideways. Maggots spilled from Hugh's mouth, and he had another spasm.

"You can't run from me." Came the voice. Jim's head flickered oddly, and an incessant high note filled Hugh's ears, along with something like popping static, or crackling flames...

"The child is dead." Jim seemed to be all around him. Hugh stiffened when he felt Marsha's hand on his shoulder. It was cold, and he didn't dare to look at it.

"You'll see where your pills get you."

The room was hot and his skin was dry. Hugh's left hand lay on his chest, his right on a rug matted with vomit. His eyes opened to darkness, aside from a staticky television. He rose from the couch as soon has his eyes adjusted to the dark. He smelled piss. Pain shot through his head.

"Pain." Hugh said, surprised. "Surprise." And a small smile jumped across his face. He leapt excitedly from his couch, but tripped over unsteady feet, breaking in half his wooden coffee table.

"Oh." He said. He hadn't felt pain like this in a long time, and he'd forgotten how much it hurt. Still, if his bottle of pills had brought back pain, there was no telling what else would be returned to him. He staggered to his feet and tread through the dark to his cabinet, tripping twice along the way. Once there, he reached inside and felt around for a bottle. He removed one, popped the cap, and held it upside down over his mouth. But nothing came out.

Unperturbed, he dropped the empty bottle and took another. But it was empty as well. He reached in again, and again, but each one he tapped made the hated sound of a bottle when it's hollow. Hugh threw open the kitchen window and was met with a sight he'd never expected.

His kitchen was trashed. Empty bottles littered the floor, vomit drizzled the counter, and there were bloody handprints on the walls. He looked at his own hands, and yes, they were covered in dried blood.

"What happened?" Hugh muttered to himself, just as his headache throbbed. He rushed to the bathroom and drunk from the faucet, then covered his face and hair in water. He spat the taste of vomit from his mouth, then looked up at the mirror. His hair was green and his face was white. "My God." Hugh murmured.

Hugh sat again on his couch. His calm demeanor was gone. It was all he could do not to panic when he looked around his devastated living room. He sat this way for thirty minutes or so, painfully awake, painfully aware of his state of being. If a green lock fell across his face he'd jump at the sight of it, unused to such coloring. If a bird hit the window his hands would clench down on the couch. Eventually, Hugh began to wonder how long he had been unconscious. His memory of the time past was marred by frequent blackouts and perpetual sleep. There were only a few flashes of memory left, and the opening of bottles comprised them most.

Hugh thought back to his last whole memory. He had been lying against the wall, listening to voices from a broken television. It had been a hallucination, of course, but he remembered something else.

He dropped to his knees and crawled to the TV stand, rubbing along the carpet to find two yellow pieces. Sifting through the trash did not produce the halves of the note, and he sat back in relief. Then he saw them poking from a medicine bottle.

He snatched it up and pulled the two pieces out. Together, they read just what he'd feared. _Stop taking pills._

"If this is here... am I still delusional?" He asked, but got no response. There was a pill at the bottom of the bottle he held, so he gobbled it and swirled his finger around the bottom for the dust. He looked at the staticky television, expecting Jim and Marsha to jump onto the screen at any second. But they did not.

Hugh stepped out and walked to the next apartment. He pounded on the door, and after a minute, a young woman opened it a crack. Before she could shut it, he jammed his foot in the gap and pried it open. She stepped back in fright.

"Girl," He said, holding the two strips of paper before her. "Do you see this?"

She cowered in fear.

"These papers, girl, do you see them?" He demanded.

"Yes, yes, I see them." She sobbed. Hugh slumped against the frame in shock.

"Was that real?" He asked himself. "Have they ever been hallucinations?"

"Never." Said the girl. Only, it wasn't the girl. Black flames licked up her body and her pupils expanded to fill her eyes. Beside that, her voice was much like Jim's had been. "That's why your pills are useless."

Hugh pulled back his fist and heaved it at her face. She fell to the ground, face spattered and nose dripping with blood. But the black eyes hadn't left.

"The pain you feel? The panic? It's temporary. Your entire cabinet of pills will give you maybe a day of relief. In fact, feel this." The girl pulled him to the ground with her and raked her nails along his arms. The cuts stung for a moment, but Hugh could tell that they should have hurt far more. "You don't need pain, Hugh. After all, you can still feel the good things." The girl slipped a steady hand down his belly. He grabbed it and hit her savagely, disgusted by the disease that attacked him.

"You're not real!" He shouted at the girl. "You're nothing!"

But the girl's eyes weren't black anymore. They were green and wide and there were tears streaming from their ends. Her trembling hand was pinned near his crotch, and she was begging with him, pleading that he was right, that she was nothing, that he could take what he wanted if he'd just leave. Hugh stood quickly. The girl was wearing a black dress and mascara was now smeared down blushing cheeks. This girl had been about to go out. She wouldn't anymore.

"This is what your emotions get you, Hugh. An innocent girl bleeding on the ground." Said a voice in his head.

"I am so sorry." He whispered in a broken voice. "Jesus, I am so sorry." The girl merely turned her head and wept. He left and shut the door, then raced back through his room, searching desperately for a pill, any pill, or maybe even a knife.

He knew what he had to do. Shards of broken glass lined his bathroom sink, and he grabbed one without hesitation. Emotions warred in his brain, begging him to slash open his wrists and pleading that he drop the blade. He looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes were wide and there were tears streaming from the ends.

"Do you like this?" Said someone behind him. It was Jim's voice, and the girl's, but it didn't have the same anger as before. Still, it wasn't soothing as Marsha's. "Do you want to feel this way?"

"Of course not." Hugh replied. He didn't care if it was a hallucination. "That's why I'm ending it." And Hugh cut up the vein.

Hugh turned to face his fear before he died. Already, a pool had collected by his left foot. The man... the thing he faced seemed to shift in and out of reality. Red eyes were narrowed on a skull swathed in dark fire. Hugh was afraid.

"That is one way out." IT said. "But there's another as well."

"What? Succumb to you? Give in to the disease? I won't give up my humanity just to live in this godforsaken..." Hugh was interrupted by a flaming hand around his wrist. The cut sealed itself up, and Hugh felt a surge of energy rush through him.

"What is humanity but disease? You and your kin walk the Earth covered in sickness, and you're afraid of some virus in your frontal lobe?" With the terrible energy IT poured into Hugh's body, Hugh gathered his strength and shoved the black figure back, buckling the tile wall behind IT. IT was unfazed. "Tell me, Hugh." IT said. "What is it that you want?"

Hugh wiped the salt from his cheeks. "I want to stop hurting people. Even... I want to help them."

IT - whatever IT was - IT nodded. "There are greater evils than you in the world, Hugh." And the black figure vanished into the wall behind.

Then there was a scream from the room next door. Hugh dropped the blade and rushed into the hallway, then kicked open the door from which the shout had emerged. He saw a man pinning a girl in a black dress to the ground. The man was yelling at her and pushing her hand toward his crotch. She was pleading with him, agreeing with what he said, begging him not to hurt her. Hugh grabbed a lamp from a table and bashed it over the man's head with incredible, dark strength. The man looked up at him with wild eyes, green hair, pale skin, and rampant emotion. For Hugh, it was an easy decision to finally kill the man below him.

He helped the girl to her feet and asked if she was alright. She threw her arms around him and cried into his chest, thanking him so much for his help. Hugh wondered why she wasn't scared of him. Wasn't his hair as green as the man he'd just killed? Wasn't he just as confusing and scary a sight?

In the mirror on her wall, he saw himself giving her comfort. But his hair wasn't green and his skin wasn't white. He looked strong and handsome, just as he had in his youth. As he received the thanks of the girl and helped her recover, ITS voice sounded in Hugh's head. "You see, Hugh? You never needed to kill yourself. This is you: this devilish handsome thing. You only ever needed to kill the weakness in you. And now it's gone. Now we can spread strength together. We can correct the imperfections of your Earth, Tricks."

And Tricks agreed. After he'd spent intimate moments cleaning the girl's wounds, physical and otherwise, he returned to his apartment to take a final look at his humanity. It was littered with pill bottles and covered in vomit. But he remembered the good things too. The feeling of beauty with the girl he'd helped, the tenderness in his mother's touch, and the buzz from a pint of Jack. He'd accepted the disease now, and he was ready to let his pain and fear fade away.

But to remember his humanity, he took a bottle of green dye and poured it over soft brown hair, and painted his face with white. Green hair wasn't the humanity that he loved, but it had come with the humanity that his pills used to provide. Beside that, when he looked in the mirror, the sight made him laugh a hearty laugh.

He looked a bit like a clown, come to think of it. He'd loved clowns as a kid. And Tricks was a nice name; Hugh had never suited him.

Tricks. Yeah, he liked the sound of that. Trick. Tricky.

Tricky the Clown.


	3. The Sheriff

"Upon further investigation, six semen samples and seventeen strands of hair were found in the vehicle of the culprit."

Most women wouldn't abide this channel. Even during the day they'd be disgusted with it, but in the waning hours of night when they were splayed on satin sheets and savoring a Djarum Black? No, it took a special kind of woman to ignore the Nevada Police Radio.

"DNA evidence has so far been inconclusive, but distinctly colored green hairs are giving the SINPD confidence that the culprit will be located."

That's why Sheriff Jay didn't like most women. They were fragile and needy and they took all his money. Prostitutes, on the other hand, didn't give a shit and were quiet and took a couple hundred at most. Of course, Sheriff Jay's friendship with Daddy Flow made them free. But Sheriff Jay was a nice guy.

"I always give a tip. Of one kind or another." He said, chuckling. The prostitute didn't pay any mind to his joke. "Be careful saying nothing, baby. I might just fall in love."

She snorted and rolled over.

Then his phone rang. "Sheriff Jay, SINPD." He yawned into the speaker. "Who are you and why the fuck are you bothering me?"

"It's some bad shit, Jay. The Agency's East Complex just got busted up." It was Tommy. As usual, Tommy wasn't calling to say hello.

"What? Which building? And is the shipment alright?" Sheriff Jay asked. He noted lovingly and duly that the prostitute wasn't interested in his conversation.

"Not one building, Jay. The entire damn complex. The shipment is as good as gone, too. The whole place is a biohazard." Tommy said.

"A biohazard? What happened?"

"We don't know. Last messages out were about a breach in the anti-teleportation perimeter, gunfire in the halls, and then a power shutdown. After that, the communications were cut."

Sheriff Jay's expression grew grim as Tommy listed off the final messages. "Ellie. Out." Jay said, and she slipped from the covers to the hallway door. "Now, Tommygun, don't be exaggerating right now. It's far too late for so grievous a joke."

"The complex has been on fire since the attack. We've had firemen deluging it for a half hour, but the smoke got so bad that they had to abandon the firetrucks by the gate. There's something wrong here, Jay."

"Is it that their shipment wasn't delivered? Because that seems pretty wrong to me. Twenty percent of two hundred keys, Tommygun, that's quite a bit to lose to some thugs. What happened to our guards?" Sheriff Jay demanded, sitting up now.

"By the toxicity of those fumes, everyone in the complex is dead." Said Tommy.

"And in breaking news," droned the radio, "The East Complex of The Agency has been consumed in black flames. It is unknown at this time how the combustion occurred, as the SINPD has not been forthcoming with information, but there has been much speculation that..." Sheriff Jay turned off the radio. It was no longer a sedative or a distraction.

"Are you heading over?" Tommy asked.

Sheriff Jay said yes and hung up the phone. He was equal parts surprised and upset. Surprised because The Agency, _especially_ the East Complex, was among the most heavily armed entities in Nevada. Ever since Sheriff John had dipped into Agency profits thirty years ago in exchange for The Agency's immunity to the police, it had turned from a small settlement of white collar crime to a sprawling city of wrongdoing. Upset because thirty percent of the SINPD's revenue came from protecting The Agency, and the SINPD protected with vigor. The SINPD received huge portions of cash to protect Agency innovation with the newest weaponry available, which happened to come from Agency innovation in which the SINPD was heavily invested. In fact, The Agency and the SINPD had become so codependent that some considered them to be one and the same. If either one acted, the other reacted. And the Sheriff could only dread the reaction to this.

Sheriff Jay stepped from his 2004 Corvette and slammed the door. Driving up, he had wondered why the police perimeter was so far from the complex itself, but he understood the moment he touched open air. The smoke was irritating even at this distance. Sheriff Jay found Tommy in a group of police, watching the fire with a wet cloth over his mouth. Tommy walked to the Sheriff with a nervous gait and checked to ensure that they were alone.

Before the Sheriff could ask for news, Tommy began to speak. "Jay, Jay, this isn't good. We sent in three officers with gas masks and they haven't come back. Their communication was cut the moment they entered the building. Be straight with me, Jay, do you know who did this? Dammit man! Who did you piss off?"

Sheriff Jay shook his head. "I'm as confused as you. I assume the other Agency complexes are on lockdown?"

Tommy nodded. "No one's getting into North or Base. But this looks like extortion, Jay, and if the orchestrator of this operation approaches you, I think you need to give him what he wants. The group clearly had teleportation technology that outrivaled the Agency's own, so there's no telling what other advantages they might have."

"I'll make note." Said the Sheriff.

Sheriff Jay learned everything he could from those who surrounded the building, but everything he could was very little. He felt beaten and unproductive when he got back into his car, and jumped when the passenger seat spoke. "You have a problem here." Said a darkly dressed figure on the other side of the console.

Sheriff Jay drew a gun and held it towards his passenger. "This is my daddy's old gun. One of the first revolvers; a true antique. I'd hate to waste it on some carjacker."

"I know who's occupying the East Complex. I also know what he wants. Maybe we could make a deal." Said the man, overflowing with confidence. Cocky bastards annoyed the Sheriff.

"Occupying, you say? Now who the hell could be occupying this poisonous deathtrap?"

"Poisonous people. But it's not as much of a deathtrap as you think. The men and women inside are alive and well. Very well, in fact." Said the man.

"I have trouble believing that. Listen, whatever deal you're proposing is worthless to me. I don't take kindly to being threatened, and I'm sure as hell not negotiating with you or your boss. You've bit off more than you can chew here, and I suggest you leave." Sheriff Jay said.

The man may have smirked under his hood. The Sheriff didn't know, but it didn't matter. He'd done this before, and an aggressive messenger didn't concern him. No, Sheriff Jay was excited. The last few years had seen his Nevadan empire prosperous but mostly unopposed. This talk of occupation could give him the chance to flex some Agency muscle, and possibly to ward off future extortion.

As the man stepped from the car and watched the Sheriff drive away, Sheriff Jay grinned and dialed Ellie.

"Hey, Ellie? It's Jay. Meet me back at that hotel. Yeah... I have reason to celebrate."


	4. The Soldier

"As far as I'm concerned, this is a salvage mission. It's been four days and nobody's come out. We'll locate whatever research needs to be preserved and leave. It'll take an hour at most." Said James.

"Explain to me, then, why we're armed with experimental Sublab shit." Said Kara. "I've been doing this for four years, rookie, and I've never been sent anywhere boasting this kind of artillery."

"I hear Sheriff Jay got some intel that he wouldn't share with The Agency. He expects us to meet resistance in there." Said Harry.

"We all got the same briefing this morning, right? Anyone else read 'fire at will' and 'take no prisoners'? We're going in to kill people. Sheriff Jay doesn't care about East Complex's chemical experiments, he..." Kara was interrupted by James.

"He might care about them a little. Rumor has is that those 'chemicals' are mostly heroin. Rumor has it that Sheriff Jay's been taking a dip." James said with a smirk, and Harry couldn't quell the grin attacking his relationship with Kara. (Kara didn't like jokes, and she really didn't like James.) But nobody took the East Complex drug rumors seriously. It was just a bit of fun.

"He's sending us in to take the complex back." Kara finished. "But I can't imagine who we're taking it back from."

"Some teleporting ghouls and gooks and other monsters of the scary kind. Come on, Kara, there's nothing alive in there." James.

Kara rolled her eyes. She wasn't about to argue with James. He was a rookie and a clown and he made her feel tired. The intercom buzzed to life.

"All Squadron A units be prepared for mobilization in five minutes." Came the dispassionate voice of Jack The Intercom Guy. Harry and James loved Jack: Jack got just as pissed off as everyone else did in the morning. He didn't hide it, either. "I repeat, all you bitch-ass gravediggers be out back or wherever the hell. You know."

The intercom turned off, and James sighed. "I'll sure miss Jack The Intercom Guy. This'll be the last time we hear from him, won't it, Harry? After all, Kara isn't about to save us from the East Complex boogeyman. Might as well say our prayers."

_Harry'd better excuse himself before he pisses me off,_ Kara thought as Harry stifled a laugh. The door to the lockers opened just as she finished cinching her armbands.

"Did you lagging grubs just now finish dressing? Five minutes early is ten minutes late. Get out back before I render you incapable of duty. Hustle, soldiers!" Came the grinding shout of old Group Director Samuel. Group Director Samuel should rightfully have been called Colonel Samuel, but The Agency was not an official military group and had adopted non-military titles. Harry had to stop James from mocking Group Director Samuel to his face. James loved to hate Group Director Samuel.

The trio followed their Group Director to the back to meet the rest of the Squadron. They'd been drilling in preparation for battle. In fact, the rest of the Squadron was already sweaty.

"That's some hard drilling." Harry said, climbing into a truck. "Sammy was really pushing you guys, wasn't he?" Harry asked a worn out member of the squadron.

"Yeah." The member replied, addressing Harry, James, and Kara. "Director Samuel is expecting some friction. We're on our top game."

"Damn, Kara, it looks like you were right." Said James. "It's a good thing we have you to protect us."

Harry put his arm around Kara and pulled her in to show that he was ignoring James's quips. She leaned into the embrace for a moment, then pulled away. She had to bring her top game. No distractions.

The drive to East Complex was quiet. They knew they'd arrived when the truck rolled to a stop and the door banged open. Squadron A gathered to receive a final briefing before they began.

"Alright, Grunts, I won't bullshit you." Grated Group Director Samuel. "You might be looking at some heavy resistance when you get in there. I wasn't told this directly, but Task Director Adams heavily implied that we'd be up against some well armed aggressors. Do not take this mission lightly, and do not be fooled by this morning's briefing: Your primary mission is not scavenging, it's elimination.

"Our scientists have been working tirelessly to develop a buffer against this smoke you're seeing. I may add that I am personally impressed that they've accomplished this in a mere three hours after this attack occurred and the order was given. I am passing you each a packet of filters for your gas masks. They should last 72 hours each in the case that something goes wrong and you cannot escape. It is imperative that you exchange filters every four hours, I repeat, do not neglect your filters.

"As you can see, this area is off limits to the media and the police have already dispersed, so we're alone here. You may encounter communication interference on the inside of the complex. You'll have to rely on yourselves to stay organized. So stay focused, Grunts. Be wary. Truly. I wish you good luck." Group Director Samuel ended his speech and sent them in with a chipper, "Knock 'em dead, Grunts!" And they moved inside.

It was 0500 hours, and morning light could not penetrate the thick smoke surrounding the complex. Each squadron member was forced to turn on their helm lights and flashlights immediately after passing the high, stone gate. Scanning the Earth below, Harry raised his eyebrows at what looked to be a large spread of bullet holes. Squadron A divided into groups for each of the six buildings, and Kara was quick to volunteer for the middle building, the farthest from any exit.

Harry, James, Kara, and three other Squadron members tread cautiously toward the East Complex barracks. "Alright, let's do a full sweep of the first floor, then work our way up." Said Kara. "There should be about nine floors going up, and if we're overwhelmed on our way back down, the fire escape is located on the west side. Assuming that our team is undamaged once we've made it down, we can begin sweeping the underground portion of the building. Are we ready?"

The group said yes and stepped in. Kara looked around. Power had clearly been shut down, but the emergency lights were still functional. The floor and walls were illuminated with red strips. Visibility was good. Some light smoke lingered on the ground; it rolled at the touch of disturbing feet. The lobby and dining room were abandoned, and chairs lay scattered about their tables. Kara examined the tabletops. They were covered in trays with food half eaten.

Kara attempted to send their progress back to base, but as suspected, communication was down.

They met no resistance on Floor One. Kara gave a signal to approach the stairwell, and three of her squadmates followed her. But Harry was following James to the elevator. It opened with an audible ding.

"Harry!" Kara hissed. He spun towards her voice as though he was being reprimanded. Remorse was plain on his face, but James only smiled as he stepped into the elevator. James took a guiltless bite of a banana from the dining room. Harry took a step closer to her. "Never mind." She waved him off, and Harry rode to Floor Two with James while Kara took the stairs.

Floors Two and Three were board for officers. The hallways were luxurious and thick and well padded with carpet, but they didn't offer Kara any comfort. Each room was equipped with a bed, a mini-fridge, a toilet, and a shower. Kara was avoiding Harry, so she buddied with a handsome squadmate named Matt. He whistled as they searched the rooms. "If only my quarters were like this." He dreamed. Kara didn't respond. "Are you aiming for officer, Kara?" She nodded with a manner that tolerated no conversation. She was as curt as ever.

Floors Two and Three were clear, and clocks showed 0530 hours. The group moved to Floor Four. This was the community shower and locker. The tile floor was still wet, and soap dried in the drains. James made some echoing jokes that Kara did not pay attention to. The place was searched, and Floor Five was waiting. James stayed behind the group to relieve himself into a drain.

0600 hours. Floors Five and Six.

This was board for higher ranking cadets who'd been with the agency for at least a year. Rooms were smaller and closer together, and the hallways were thin and unpadded. These were the rooms that Squadron A and B boarded in at the North Complex. Kara was familiar with the three beds and small toilet room in each one. She couldn't help but notice the pervasive personalization that was so common among Agency cadets. One room had a Nevadan Rockers poster on the wall, another was stacked with homemade paintings and pictures, and they all were full of photos from home. Kara's buddy, Matt, picked up a photo from one of the rooms. It was of Matt's friend with spiky red hair. They finished the sweep. Still no resistance.

Seven and Eight were reserved for true rookies, agents even greener than James. Those who had served less than a year got no rooms, just a large dormitory full of messy bunks. Meeting no opposition, Kara began to wonder if there truly was a threat in the East Complex. Of course all of these agents didn't disappear. They didn't seem to be dead, though. Only gone.

Floor Nine, the final floor, was as empty as the rest of them, but for the pool tables and dartboards it housed. Having cleared the building to the top, Kara thought it prudent that the group meet.

"It is 0630 hours, and we're clear so far." She said. "But for the life of me I couldn't figure out where everybody went. These barracks are listed to house almost a hundred men, am I correct?" She was.

"They don't seem to be dead. Maybe they're hiding in the basement. Or, maybe they've fled to another building. The question is why the smoke didn't kill them and leave them dead in Floors One and Four." Matt said.

"They may have mobilized during the attack." Suggested Harry, who was straining to ignore a tempting game of pool played by James and the other two squadmates. "So, I say we check the basement. We'll either find them there or it'll be empty and we can leave the complex to report to Director Samuel. This is more cut and dried than I would've thought."

"So it seems." Kara said softly. She'd employed a soft tone since entering the complex, but her caution seemed useless when she heard the sharp rap of a cue against the cue ball.

Harry saw her irritation. "James is a jerk." He said. But Kara didn't feel much passion behind his words. He at least got a peck on the cheek for the attempt.

James sunk the nine ball with expert skill. The other two players slapped him on the back, and he shrugged at their congratulations and compliments. "What can I say," he grinned, "I've got fuckall to do other than play pool and masturbate."

Everyone laughed but Harry and Kara. Then one of the losers of the game spoke up. "You all know what's weird?" He asked. His name was Erik. "Corey, Casey, and Brutus. Those were the three officers sent into this complex to investigate after it was attacked. They didn't have gas masks, but they were definitely exposed to the smoke. Did any of you see their bodies when we came through the gate?"

Everyone shook their heads. "No." Said the other loser, Alex. "I didn't see anything. And I was looking around."

Silence.

"So, the ghouls and gooks are real." Said James.

"We can worry about them when we report back to Group Director Samuel." Assured Kara. "Until then, let's finish the underground portion and get out quickly. These filters are supposed to be effective, but I still don't want to spend too long in this smoke."

They all agreed. That's when the emergency power shut down.

All lights searched the room. Nothing had changed, except...

"There's a gate blocking the stairwell." Said Matt. He pushed on it, but it was steel and it wouldn't move. "Shit."

Everyone moved to the stairs to investigate. The gate was thick and heavy and had been nailed from the ground halfway to the ceiling with no noise at all. "Somebody's here." Said Kara. "Weapons ready." The group collectively drew their weapons. And nothing happened.

They waited for about a minute. There was no movement, no attack, and no sound but the ragged breathing of their own group. "Should we take the fire escape down? It looks clear." Asked Matt. His hands fidgeted on his gun.

Kara shook her head. "Our objective is to clear the complex. We'll face this head on." She began kicking at the gate. The noise resounded through the ninth floor, and likely through the floors below, but all pretense of sneaking was gone. The enemy knew where they were. What would be the purpose of silence?

The echoes of her kicks were joined by those of Harry and Alex. James hung back, smiling with a pool cue; Matt stood nervously in the center; and Erik, gun shaking, stood close to him.

Their kicks soon broke through the drywall, and the gate clattered down the stairs. But it had tired Kara, and she determined that if they met a similar obstacle they'd face it with hot lead. So they swept Floors Eight and Seven. They were clear. By 0700 hours they had swept Floors Six and Five. They were clear as well. Then they reached Floor Four.

They were quiet in the stairwell. The community shower, though, was not quiet. Clear against the deathly stillness was the sound of water rushing from the shower head and draining down the grate. Steam mingled with smoke and rose into the stairs.

If the water was on, the emergency power must have been back. Kara turned off her lights. The rest of the group followed suit. Kara slid from the cover of the stairwell to that of a locker, and, pistol hot, peered at the source of the water. The silhouette of a clothed man was dimly lit under manmade rain.

The man's features were unclear. No part of him moved aside from the glinting droplets of water that rolled from his soaked coat to the floor. His arms were at his sides, palms forward, and he did not seem to be at all conscious of Kara's presence.

Yes he was. Kara could feel his invisible eyes burning like lit matches.

No, he couldn't see her. The only thing to see seemed to be him.

It was impossible to tell what the man was thinking. Kara could only observe what threat he posed. And, as she peered closer, she could see rivulets of water dripping from a big gun in his right hand.

The emergency lights flickered off. For a dreadful moment, Kara felt very not alone. She felt very much like she could feel the man's breath just behind her. An entire minute passed by with nothing but the drip of water, clenched muscles, and the looming possibility of death.

The lights flickered back on. Maybe it was her imagination, but it seemed to Kara that the man had gotten one shower head closer to her. But his position had not changed.

She wasn't sure where her squadmates were. She thought they had followed her to hide behind the locker, but she couldn't see him. All she could see was the man with the gun. But now was not the time to be paralyzed. Now was not the time for fear. She narrowed her eyes and steeled herself. This man was no more a threat to her than anyone else. She was just as well armed as him, and she was protected by a locker's cover.

She gave no warning, no question, no time to react. Kara fired three successive rounds at the man. The lights flickered out once again, and there came the sound of a body hitting the floor. Her lights came on with the rest of her squad's. They all came together and approached the body with the utmost care.

"Oh, Jesus." Said Matt when he saw the body. "Oh, Axel, no."

Kara trained her light on the man's body. He wore an Agency vest and had an Agency gun. It was Matt's friend with the spiky red hair.

"No, Axel, what the hell are you doing?" Matt said, bending over his friend. The rivulets of water coursing from his coat to the drain had been replaced by winding runnels of blood. "Axel? Axel, can you hear me?" Matt began to do compressions on Axel's chest. "Come on, Axel, are you there?"

Axel was dead. His life was draining into the East Complex's water recycling system as Matt pressed.

"Keep sweeping." Said Kara.

James whistled. "Yep, we're packing some heavy shit." He said, sticking a finger into one of the three gaping holes on Axel's chest.

"Hey, back off!" Matt shouted, pushing James back in a fit of hysteria. "Don't touch him! He's my friend!"

"Well, was." James replied with wolf teeth. Matt took a swing at James.

"Knock it off." Commanded Kara. "We can seek medical attention for your friend once this complex is clear."

"Knock it off?" Matt asked, approaching Kara. "You're telling me to knock it off? You shot him! You shot him dead!"

"The boogeyman was only trying to take a shower." James.

"We don't have time for this. We need to focus. Bring our top game, remember?" Kara reminded him.

Matt shook his head. "Not under you. Not under some trigger-happy bitch."

Kara could have punched him in the nose, tripped him over his friend, and slammed his head against the tile floor. She could have taken her pistol and whipped him on the cheek. She could even have shot him in the kneecap. But that would not help her to retain control. She had to keep calm. "Desertion is unacceptable. If you defect, you'll be penalized." Her face didn't reveal any of the thoughts behind it.

Matt paused. Then, petulantly, he said, "I'll report this." Kara nodded and ordered him to sweep. After Matt stalked off, only James and Kara stood by the body. They were quiet for a moment.

"You've really got a firm grip on their balls, don't you? Matt and Harry don't get to have thoughts anymore." Said James to Kara. James didn't seem to be joking any longer.

Kara looked at James in the eye, granting him a rare moment of acknowledgement. "I only do what I need to." And James kept on sweeping.

Floor Four was soon cleared. They made sure of it, checking every locker and every inch of shower for any hostile force. None were left but a bloody Axel. The group plodded over wet tile to Floor Three. Matt would not buddy with Kara, Kara would not buddy with Harry or James, and Alex was inseparable from Erik. So Kara searched rooms by herself.

She entered a room alone. It was as deserted as ever, barren of motion but for the flickering emergency lights. The clock said 0730 hours. She checked the room diligently, even opening drawers and cabinets for signs of something odd. But it was fruitless. She stepped out into the hallway ready to search the next room. She didn't hear James's incessant jokes or Harry's audible desire to please, so it was quiet in both directions. But at her feet she saw something strange. A line of blood ran over the floor.

The trail started at the stairwell and progressed down the narrow hallway, leading her past several intersections and turns before it stopped. The trail led under the door of one of the rooms. Kara drew her weapon, counted to three, and kicked open the door. She was met with nothing but the stares of Alex and Erik. "What are you doing?" They asked.

"Is either one of you bleeding?" Was her reply. They shook their heads. Something was in the room with them.

Kara shut and locked the door. Nothing would get out during this search. She turned over tables, tore down pictures, and flipped the mattress off of the bed. Erik and Alex helped her, but not with nearly the same vigor. Kara searched for ten minutes before she fell to her knees and they forced her to stop. "Kara." Said Erik. "There's nothing in here."

But she could hear it. Just behind her, a creaking in the floorboards, a breath whispering in the air. She felt its jaw nestling against her hair and tilting towards her neck. She could sense its incisors shining an unearthly white. She felt its teeth stroke the hairs on her flesh. Her fragile collarbone was liable to be bitten at any moment, shoulder sure to be closed by hungry lips, vein bound to be grazed by a thirsty tongue. Kara shuddered.

There was nobody behind her, though. Only Alex and Erik. And out the door, the mist on the ground was so heavy that she couldn't have seen any blood. She swatted it away, sending it out in waves, and revealing nothing but hardwood beneath.

"It seems..." She began. She was at a loss for words. "It seems I was mistaken." She finally breathed. They finished the sweep of Room Three. Or Floor Four. Whatever it was.

Kara's five squadmates stood near her, all observing her like she was some volatile, unsteady animal. All but James, who stared into hers with wide, keen eyes. "The ghouls and gooks haven't got us yet." He said to her. They all laughed, but James didn't.

"Let's move on." Kara said distractedly. Her eyes were unfocused, and she was certainly lost somewhere outside of this room.

"Harry, why don't you buddy with Matt." Advised James. And they all headed to Floor Two, James and Kara tailing the group. James led the dazed Kara into the first room, then shut the door and locked it behind them. He stood by the door and watched her. She was already sweeping, already wandering from bathroom to bed to closet, searching each with decreasingly deft movements. Their gas masks both lay on the ground; they didn't see any smoke in this room.

0800 hours.

"I'm feeling tired, Kara." Said James. "Mind if I have a seat?" She didn't reply, so he sat on the end of the bed. She kept searching, checking the bathroom again, browsing the cabinets, returning to the bathroom. When she passed him by, James grabbed her by the waist and turned her with a firm hand. "Take a seat, Kara." He sat her down on the bed. Then he lay down on his back, arms folded across his stomach. She followed suit after a moment.

He looked at her again. For her, even resting on the couch was not resting. Her eyes darted about the ceiling as though she were still searching for something. James began to speak softly. "You know, Kara, I was pretty shaken up about Axel in the bathroom. I didn't want to tell anyone, but I've been a bit on edge since then. I feel..." He studied her for a moment. "I always seem confident, Kara, and that's not an accident. I try to stay in control. But since Axel, I've felt helpless. I still feel vulnerable."

At last, she closed her eyes. They stayed closed for a long time, and when James didn't think she'd say anything else, he began to stand so he could sit on another chair.

"No you don't." She said, touching his hand. She had him lie down again. "Why are you trying to make me feel... I mean, I never thought... why are you doing this?"

James looked at her. Most often, her features were set in a stiff, determined way. Now she was calm, face relaxed, eyes still closed. And she had blonde hair, too. One could tell now, more than ever, that she was afraid. But James had noticed all of that a long time ago. A character never fooled him.

"Your team needs you to be strong." He replied. "They need you to be rested, too. Pushing harder is no way for a leader to fight fear."

Kara's eyes were open now. She rolled onto him, lips parted, body desperate to thank him. James stopped the kiss with a thumb on her lips, but then looked at her as though they'd been kissing for minutes. "A leader needs to be focused." He reminded her. "Top game."

There was a knock at the door. Kara stood, fear still alive, but confidence renewed. "That is correct, soldier."

"What's going on in there?" Asked Harry. He knocked again. Kara marched to the door and unlocked it precisely and frugally, as though every movement was a commodity that need be spared. If Harry had been worried about what Kara and James were doing, her expression instantly relieved his fear. She was more business, more top game, than ever before. And after the fear this place had inspired in her, she was back with a vengeance.

"Floor Two is complete. Let's move, Floor One is waiting." She led them down as a single group. The buddy system would not pack the firepower she planned to rain on this building.

"What happened in there?" Harry asked. "She seems back to normal."

"She just needed a bit of rest. After all, she is Kara." James replied.

Kara attacked Floor One with hate. She did not consider leaving through the door: Too much of her wrath was left ungiven. Her energy inspired the rest of the group to plunge ever deeper into the East Complex's barracks.

The door to Floor B1 was locked, and the elevator required a key that the group did not have. Kara was just as happy to blow the door off its hinges. So they descended through smoking steel to the basement, housing none but the Director of the East Complex. The floor was furnished with all the amenities a Director could want. On one side was a full bar, on the other an enormous television. The hardest fall would land you comfortably on a luxurious carpet or couch or pillow, depending on where you stood. The most vicious of armies would pause their battle to admire fine paintings, gems, and decor. Time itself (at 0830 hours) would halt its ceaseless passing to enjoy vintage wines from the shelf. But not Kara.

Kara plowed the room in relentless search, showing plain disregard for the joys around. James begged to stay there with his new friends: Cuban cigars and bubbly champagne. "The floor has it's own power source. Think how many more baddies we'll see in here compared to the dark below." James said. But Kara would not stop. They descended to B2, the lowermost floor, supposed to be home for the complex's scientists.

B2 was unlike the other housing floors. They had all been built of wood and nails and heated by a thermostat. B2 was made of rock and concrete and was far too cold for comfort. Every edge was jagged and no corner was round. The hallways wound tightly, to the point that it was hazardous to walk as a single unit, as any dead would have to be climbed over and would not allow for a swift escape. So they split once more into groups of James and Kara, Matt and Harry, and Erik and Alex. Kara and James entered a stone room shivering.

"How long have we been here?" James wondered aloud. Kara looked for a clock on the wall but found none. _How do the scientists keep time?_ She thought. They left to check another room, and another, and another. It was tiresome work, and Kara's fiery energy from before was beginning to fade. B2 sapped James's strength as well; Kara noticed him propping himself against a wall or table whenever he got the chance.

Each room was messy, but easy to find was the same blue key in every room. Soon the sweep was complete, no hostility encountered, and Kara's unit met Harry's in the hallway. They waited for Erik and Alex to come out. And they kept waiting. And waiting.

Soon they were not waiting anymore, but sweeping the floor again for the missing buddies. Soon every room had been checked but one locked door. They pounded on it repeatedly, but no one emerged. Kara was forced to kick it in to check. "Alex! Erik! Are you here?" But there came no response.

"So... do we stop?" Matt asked. "We said we were going to stop if we lost anybody. This is the last floor. We should leave and report this to Group Director Samuel. Maybe we'll see Axel and Erik on the way up."

Kara was about to agree. It seemed like they were finished, and she'd be glad to get out of this complex and go back to her own. But then she heard James's voice from far away.

"It's not the last floor." He said. They all walked to his voice, and saw him staring down a dark stairwell that had been covered by a false wall. He'd gotten the door open with a key from one of the rooms.

"We aren't going down there. By no means will we descend to an unrecorded floor." Matt assured himself.

"This wasn't one of the elevator buttons, guys. We can go, but we don't know what's down there. It could be anything." Harry said. He didn't seem afraid, but he wanted to got home just as much as the rest of them. What would Kara say?

Kara wouldn't let them go home, James knew. She had something to prove to herself.

Kara lit the darkness with a flashlight and started down. "Goddammit." Muttered Matt. "Stupid bitch."

There was no question over what B3 was once the group had seen it. It was a prison, plain and simple, and a bad prison at that. The entire floor was filthy. Rancid grime had accumulated in every corner, rats were dead on open floor, and cobwebs hung undisturbed from the ceiling. Many cells had shit smeared on the walls. Sometimes the shit was mixed with blood.

"I wonder why the scientists all have keys to this place." Matt asked. The question answered itself.

Unlike most of the rooms the group had swept, it was immediately apparent that they were not alone in this one. Almost every cell held a convict who was either dead or dying. From one cell came the rattling of a frostbitten hand against bars, from another came a hacking cough. Moans emanated from a few. A few of the cells were empty, but every cell was closed. Except for one.

Kara looked into the open cell. It had been recently used, she could tell from the stink in the toilet. Yet there was nobody there. She walked in, checking both bunks for prisoners. They were both used, but both empty. She was about to leave when she heard the door close behind her.

"I haven't seen a girl as pretty as you since I worked for the Agency." Rasped a man just inside the door. "I think we should spend some time together."

Before he could touch her, she spun around and fired a bullet into his stomach. Red dripped from his mouth onto bloody chapped lips and a wiry brown beard. "That would have hurt a few hours ago." Said the man, spittle and blood spraying onto Kara's face. She backed away from him until she tripped and splashed back into the clogged toilet. "But whatever smoke fucked up those scientists is making me feel very, very good."

He took an exaggerated breath of smokey air just as Kara shot him two more times in the chest. He stumbled back at first, but then lurched towards her and grabbed her by the shirt. She heard her name being called and a key being jammed into the door as the prisoner lifted her from the toilet to his scarred face. "You're going to taste very good." He said, using a fistful of her hair to expose tender throat.

But before he could do what he planned, Kara stuck her combat knife through one of his eyes. She twisted until he released, then took him to the ground and bashed his head against the floor. She only stopped when she was sure he was dead, and she was sure he was dead when his blood and brain were leaking onto the stone beneath.

Harry tried to calm her shaking. He thought he did, after a minute, but it wasn't him. Harry didn't calm her down. Kara did. And maybe James, a bit. She quickly stepped out of her shit-stained combat pants; she still had clean sweatpants on underneath. And she wasn't done.

James was watching them, and Matt had given up all pretense of sweeping, already running off, trying to find the way out through a maze of cells. "Hey, Kara?" James said. "Were there supposed to be two prisoners in that cell?"

Then they heard Matt scream. Click-click, bang! Click-click, bang! Click-click, bang! Was the sound of Matt's shotgun. The group rushed around the corner to see blood pouring from a prisoner's wounds to Matt's body. "Why won't you die?" Matt sobbed as it squeezed his throat. He finally put the prisoner down with a point blank shot to the head, but more hostile forces were spilling in from all sides. This is what Kara had been prepared for.

"Matt! Come here!" She ordered, but Matt's ankle was grabbed by an approaching... scientist. Kara shot it five times before it died, and ordered Harry to help Matt as Kara lay down suppressing fire. "James! Make sure there's a clear path to the stairs!"

"On it, chief." He said, skipping left toward the stairwell. Kara stayed precise with her rounds while Harry rushed to Matt's defense. But she was forced to divert her fire when four researchers attacked from the right. Kara threw an impact grenade in their direction, knocking them to the ground in a wave of fire and fragments. Two were dead and one was missing an arm, but both living scientists charged her even while engulfed in flames. Kara put down the intact one with the remainder of her clip, but she barely dodged being tackled by the last one while reloading. The scientist rolled and got to its feet. Kara beat it back down with her pistol then slashed its throat.

Kara found that she was no longer within sight of Harry or Matt, and try as she might to find them, she could not locate or offer them fire. Kara retreated to the security of the stairs. James had already left a pile of bodies and corresponding pile of magazines on the floor. While he reloaded his assault rifle, she drew her own. They slew twenty deranged men before Harry arrived. "Where's Matt?" Kara asked through heavy, frosty breath.

Harry shook his head. "Go, just go." And they ran up the stairs. It was a relief to face the quiet halls of B2, at least for Harry, who knew he was a mere two floors, lobby, and stretch of land away from safety. This is why he was appalled when Kara began to open the door to a room, almost as if she was still... Good god. She was about to sweep.

"Kara!" Harry shouted. "What the fuck are you doing?"

She turned around with surprise. Yes, surprise. "I... just checking to see if the floor was clear, supposed to sweep..."

"Fuck that!" Harry said. "Matt is dead. Erik and Alex are gone. We are leaving _now."_

Kara closed the door slowly. She supposed he was right. The building had been swept, and the only force left to contend with was an overwhelming one that would eventually die in the B3 prison. They could leave right away. "Okay." She said. She supposed that she hadn't expected it to end this way. And she still wasn't sure that it would.

And when the three of them rounded the corner, her doubts were confirmed. Erik was hanging from low ceiling by a bed sheet noose, so low that his toes grazed the floor. A chilled pool of blood stagnated below him. His mask was off, and the blood kept dripping from the tips of his fingers and the toes of his shoes, the corners of his mouth and the edges of his iced-over eyes. Also from a huge slice across his belly through which his intestines dangled.

"I do think we should leave." Said Harry. "I really think so. I really think we have to go."

"Yes." Said Alex, standing behind them all with a knife and flaming black eyes. "I think you should go, too."

James raised his gun, but it and a finger were cut from his hand. Alex shoved him headfirst into the wall and kept forward. Harry slipped past the hanging body and sprinted away. Kara tried to do the same, but a pool of blood stopped her path with a splash. Alex tore off her mask, took her chin in his hand, and slipped the frigid metal of the knife blade through her lips, face devoid of emotion. Kara had never believed in evil, but now she seemed to be staring it in the face.

Luckily, James moved Alex's brain from skull to wall before Kara was hurt. "Are you okay?" He asked her.

"She's not okay." Said the dead man. "None of you will leave here okay. The only way out is down, but down is always death. Do you hear them? Do you hear what they say? They say that reality stops being so real below B2. Are you sure you are where you think you are?"

James shot the dead man again to stop his talking. "Enjoy that little existential crisis." He muttered as he helped Kara to her feet.

"Dammit." She said, blinking tears from her eyes. Her hand went to the back of her pants. Now even her backups were soaked.

"Hey, it'll be alright. Listen. Hey, listen to me. Wipe those tears. Put your mask back on. We're going to be fine. We'll get up, now, come on. We'll get up and we'll go upstairs to B1. Then we'll go to Floor One. Then we'll walk out of here and leave, alright? Can we do that, Kara?"

Kara nodded. James put a hand over her eyes as he pushed her past Erik, then discreetly took Erik's and Alex's filter packets. He slipped a filter under his cracked mask and breathed through it. He had enough for nine days. But he feared that it wouldn't be enough.

James followed her up the hallway, lending her little bits of encouragement as they went. She was being strong and they were moving steadily forward until James had to stop behind her at the B1 stairwell door. Kara was shaking again.

"Come on, Kara, we can do this, remember? We're going to go to B1, then the dining room, then we leave. Come on, Kara, trust in me."

Kara shook her head. "No." She whispered. "This isn't B1."

James slid beside her and pressed his ear to the door. As clear as a frozen night came the sound of rushing water.

James opened the door as slowly as he could, trying his hardest to avoid making a creak. It didn't matter, though, because nobody could hear a creak over the sound of the shower water running over the silhouette in the middle of the community bathroom.

The last time Kara had seen Axel, the red haired friend of Matt's had been very still and very quiet. This time Axel moved erratically, having acquired a constant shake, and the smallest flicking of the lights saw him in a new position. Harry lay dead at his feet. This time there was no question as to whether or not Axel had seen them. Axel began striding toward them with unearthly bounds, so James emptied a fast clip on him and slammed the door, jamming it shut with his rifle. The banging came quickly and hard. It seemed to Kara as though Axel would break through the wood at any second. James didn't wait for that. He took Kara by the hand and ran with her down the hallway once more, opening back up the hidden door to Floor B3.

"Don't worry, Kara, keep your head up, we're on our way out." James said. James saw everything, and he'd seen something useful in the dark of the prison.

James entered B3 with guns ablaze. Any threat from any direction was left bleeding and stunned from the attack. His hail of bullets was followed by a flash bang and smoke grenade, allowing Kara and James to run unbothered to their destination.

When James got to the metal grate, he wasted no time laying a mine and detonating it in mid-run. James pushed Kara down the ladder and followed her down, igniting a war-torch and placing it beneath the passage to ward off pursuit. Only when James had taken Kara to the end of the sewer did they slow their pace.

"Are we good?" James asked. Kara nodded. "Good. Now, I want you to know something before we continue, alright? We shouldn't be down just because of a shitty situation." He said, motioning to mounds of human waste.

Kara laughed. Maybe it was because James was funny, or maybe it was because he was no less of a clown after hours of brushing death. She laughed either way.

James took a small utility saw and began cutting through the bars that trapped them in the sewer. Past them was a large cavern that was host to visible plant life. Somewhere, that cavern was connected to open air. They had a way out.

First, though, they would have to deal with the splashing steps behind them. A scientist strode towards them with a needle in one hand and a scalpel in the other. Its eyes were flaming black, just like Alex's had been. In fact, everyone who'd attacked them had a varying degree of black about their eyes. James suspected this had to do with levels of exposure to the smoke.

Kara trained her rifle on the scientist, prepared to take it down in one high caliber shot to the brain. James quickly lowered her gun. "You don't want any fire down here. Sewer air is flammable."

Kara nodded and drew her combat knife instead. It had served her well over the past hours, and it was no wonder why. At about 13 inches, forged into an expert shape, it was the sharpest and deadliest blade she'd ever held. Kara was just as confident with it as she would be with some gun or other.

Kara didn't have to kill the scientist. The work was done for them by a dirty, tired Matt. He beheaded the smoke-addled man in a fell swipe.

"Matt! You're alive!" Kara exclaimed.

"And your mask is shattered." James observed. James briefly removed his own to demonstrate how he breathed directly through the filter. Matt quickly followed suit.

"You don't need to saw through that grill." Said Matt. "There's another way to the caverns. Follow me." They did.

Matt went into a coughing fit as they walked. "It's strange," said Kara, "that the smoke would be a problem even down here. Did the fire really spread down to the sewers?"

It was a good question. "I don't think it needed to." Said James. "Nor did the fire spread from building to building on its own volition. Each one was a great distance from the rest and separated by nothing flammable. Someone lit each building, and the same person poisoned each part of them. Even down to the sewers. It's also clear why so many are gone instead of dead. The smoke doesn't kill you. It only damages you somehow. It damaged those scientists. It damaged Axel. I imagine it damaged everyone else as well."

"I wonder how the rest of the squadron is doing." Said Kara.

Matt seemed to have a burst of insight. "They can't be much better. If the Sheriff sent us here to eradicate the occupants and send a message, his enemy wants to eradicate us and send the message right back. This is all a game of power played out with lives."

Their walk led them to a tunnel where the air was much cleaner. Matt pointed out a staircase climbing one of the walls and told them that the stairs led to a door easy enough to find at the back of B3.

"I'd like to apologize for leaving you in B3. Also for shooting Axel." Said Kara later, relieving a pain in her chest.

Matt did not accept her apology. "I don't accept because you have nothing to apologize for. After having my neck gnawed on by one of those things, I gained a better understanding of them. And my understanding is that the Axel you killed probably wasn't Axel anymore. I understand that fleeing from B3 wasn't a choice, it was a necessity. I only have to wonder why you came back down."

Kara answered succinctly. "The only way out was down." She paused. "But that leads to a bigger question. How do we get out of here?"

James was tempted to say, "We don't." But that wouldn't be helpful.

Ah, fuck it. Kara had enough self control for all of them. "We don't." He said with a grin. He could instantly sense that his squadmates were appalled. "Although, if we were really determined to survive, we could get out the same way that crate planned to." He referred to the massive crate sitting on a truck in the middle of the cavern. Curious as he was, James couldn't help but bound over and open it up. He pulled out two bricks of heroin and whistled.

"One little piggy is going to be safe and snug inside of this house." James said. Of course, his two downers of squadmates missed the pun. James hopped in the truck door and turned a scientist key in the ignition. The roaring engine sounded like freedom.

"Hey!" Shouted Kara. "Someone could have heard that." Sure enough, a new group of hostiles appeared before them.

"That someone's going to get run the fuck over." James replied. "Who wants shotgun?"


	5. The Fire

**A/N: Apologies for the extended wait; school and work are life-draining. Regular posts are now scheduled for Fridays. Keep spreading the word to every human you encounter.**

"Things seem different, now." He said, sharpening a razor thin edge even thinner. "I, of course, haven't changed. No, me? I'm the same. But the world around seems to be... I don't know. Altered."

His victim screamed glass through a burlap gag.

"I know, I'll give you an example. At my old apartment, there were always things like rats, on-and-off power, pill-bottley floors, and other stuff of a dingy nature. Now, look where I am! This is the penthouse room of that rich hotel I wouldn't have been fit to crawl near before! And, I tell you, that's not the only thing that's changed."

Now he was crying through the gag, making a muffled noise that revealed a dire lack of oxygen.

"For one thing, I've got you. I never used to have company at my old apartment. But I'm ever thankful that God saw fit to bless me with such an extensive circle of friends and acquaintances."

Breathing had become easier since his panic had subsided into a more keeled-over sort of state that left hair and tears messy on the hardwood.

"I guess you're more in the circle of acquaintances than anything else. Yes, I understand that we might not be on the best terms, and due to the situation, you may even harbor some bad feelings towards me, but I never had anyone at all back at my apartment! Tied up or no, I suffered a major deficit of guests."

He cradled himself unthinkingly into fetal position, eyes blank and empty. Was he truly going to die this way?

"That's the difference between thinking positive and negative, after all. I could point out that you're an undesirable sort of guest, being such a criminal and a wrongdoer and opposed to the cause and unwillingly present; but it's more positive to step back and see that I have a guest in my home."

He hesitated to even consider the abhorrent thought that his mind conceived. It stopped his breath for a moment, so in opposition to himself the thought was. His soul, his id, the essence of his being, all his beliefs up to this point told him to be repelled.

"And when you examine it from a positive eye, it's clear that my situation now is far superior to how it was before. I can really feel the difference, you know, that's why I say that it isn't just me who's changed. I can feel a change coming on in all of Nevada, my guest. Maybe in all of the world. I'm a part of of it - and a big one, at that. I suppose that makes you part of it by association."

He steadied his breathing once again, steeling himself against the repulsion, the single abhorrent thought deciding his mind: _Fighting any longer may be death._ So he beat past the indignant barrier shouting that it was evil, that it was worse than death, and his will to survive pushed him through to what the barrier deemed the darkest corners of immorality. Trembling in apprehension, faltering in his step like a soul lost and forgone, he reached out to IT in his mind, silently begging for forgiveness.He repented for fighting ITS will. He swore that he would obey, promised that he had been wrong. And he waited for an answer.

"That's enough small talk, I think. How long has the gas been on? Ten minutes? Yeah, I think this is good enough. Well," Tricky said, opening a window and stepping onto the sill. "Time for me to go. I had a great time talking to you, I hope you know. I really just simply never get to meet people! I'm sure I'll see you soon, anyhow: The Auditor teaches through penance, but to IT, grudges are foreign. Well, good luck, my guest. Your next hours will demand it." A match sizzled to life in Tricky's hand.

"Wait!" The man tried to scream, but it came through the gag sounding the same as everything else. He released a final, frantic shout to the only hope he had left. _Auditor! _His mind formed as taut lips poured desperation through the gag. _Save me!_

Tricky the Clown dropped twelve stories and landed standing, breaking the ground instead of himself, fiery rubble raining into the crater he'd created. He walked unabashedly through fire towards his next objective. Men and women around him may have ducked or run in the face of the Inferno's weather, just as the man Tricky had abducted to a hotel room had panicked in the face of death, calling ineffectually for a savior. But Tricky had no fear of the burning hail, no fear of being unprotected by his savior, because he had long ago accepted his guide.

Flaming brick shied nervously from his person as it fell.

The unawakened crowd parted as he strode the center of the sidewalk.

Two trucks collided when a whim drove him to traverse the street.

For nothing could harm Tricky, and nothing could to him stand in impediment. This reality left little challenge in Tricky's work - the reward, visceral satisfaction, being a motivator plenty sufficient over mental stimulation. So he waited near an Agency warehouse (North Complex, notorious for experimental weaponry) and followed instructions to commandeer a departing truck. He drove it to a garage and parked it in Spot 7.

After that, he had some mysterious correspondence to carry out in code words. He bought a disposable phone and used the number and time he'd been given to call someone whose name he didn't know.

"Your colleagues must hate him." Said Tricky. "Funding must be cut. It is only then that you'll be able to displace him. I hear the job has great benefits." Tricky didn't know who his colleagues were, or even what the job was, nor of its benefits. But ITS voice came through Tricky's mouth so that he didn't have to speak.

"Don't worry about that, I'm a funny guy, I've got ideas for that, man. Won't be a problem." Said the person on the other end. It was unclear whether the voice was male or female: It had been applied to a modifier.

The voice inside of Tricky continued. "Correct. Now..."

The voice on the other end interrupted. "Really, the guy's easy enough to hate, man. He's the kind to stay distant and hang up without saying goodbye. He never tried to be my friend, man, I won't be his."

Tricky felt rage boil inside him, but not from himself - its source was the same as the voice that came from his mouth. IT was about to speak a harsh "SILENCE," but Tricky quelled the words. "That's good." Tricky said. "Beyond attacking his reputation, though, I'll need you to destroy his command. However you want to do this is up to you - I'll rely on your ingenuity. You'll need it, after all, after you have his position." Tricky's voice was smooth and dark. A perfect imitation of The Auditor. So much so that The Auditor complained inside him, upset that Tricky had taken an unplanned course. Tricky snuffed The Auditor's invective so that he could focus on the other end.

"I sure will, man. Thanks for this. I know I'm not supposed to ask your motives, man, but..."

Tricky cut him off. "You're correct. My motives are my own. Now: Begin." The conversation terminated only after both had said goodbye. Tricky wouldn't make the fatal mistake that the target had made.

The Auditor hissed evil words at Tricky when he allowed IT back. A shattered television showed him two dead realtors.

_You were spared from imperfection_

Somewhere, a girl in a black dress began to cry.

_And yet you dare to resist_

Tricky accepted his punishment. It was deafening, and it left him in a feeble heap. He decided, decided, decided to apologize until IT relented. In reward, Tricky woke up to his new friend, face burnt and melted until it lacked any feature.

"Hello, acquaintance." Tricky said quietly. "Do you see, yet? How things are changing?"

His friend did not respond. No mouth, after all.

The two of them entered a carrier's headquarters and coerced control of their telecommunications. It was easy enough to retrieve a few passwords and administer one device. For good measure, they leadened the facility to ensure that their work would not be undone.

Tricky noted with alien satisfaction that he and his acquaintance had perfect aim. Tricky fired through the throats of two men at once, broke every kneecap needed to make the humans kneel, and cut arteries so that they'd die on their knees. Die in service of Tricky. Or, The Auditor. Right. The Auditor.

_He begins to think that he is the source of his perfection. _The Auditor thought. _Penance is ineffective. Perhaps human control will be sufficient. Amusing, of course, that he is just now creating his own master._

In ten days, Tricky would send a simple message from the phone they'd possessed: "Wait at my house. Key is under the doormat."

Aside from this, he had little else to do. The Auditor, gracious as IT was, had granted him and his acquaintance long days of free time. Tricky took his acquaintance for hot dogs. Most at the stand were wary of his strange appearance, green hair and white face, but a few had in mind a radio description of green hair and semen samples. Those few fled the stand to dial police. The police, however, had already been rendered temporarily ineffective due to the efforts of an anonymous officer who had cut police funding and then complained about it.

Tricky was unaware of any of this. He and his acquaintance sat on a bench with their hot dogs. One of them lacked an orifice to eat with, though, so he merely held his. Tricky tried to remember what hot dogs had tasted like before he was made perfect - his imperfections, the green hair and the white makeup, helped with that. "Acquaintance?" He asked. "Now that we've done things together, and gone for hot dogs, and known each other for a little while... do you suppose that we'd be friends, now?"

Tricky was hoping that his acquaintance would nod his head, but the man with the burnt face instead crushed his food in a shaking hand.

"I didn't think so." Tricky sighed. "I'm sorry anyways. I'm sorry for the fire. I know... I knew... I knew you didn't want to be burned. I knew that you were happier before."

His acquaintance remained silent.

Carefully, more carefully than ever before, Tricky hid his words from The Auditor, so that IT wouldn't know that Tricky was hiding them at all. IT would just think that Tricky was being quiet. "I think we might be trapped now." He whispered. "In a way, I was burned just like you. Only, I chose to be burned. I could have kept taking my pills, and they wouldn't have kept me imperfect forever, but I could have tried for a while, anyways. Yes, I would have done bad things if I had taken them. I would have hurt that girl, and I wouldn't have saved her. But now I can't choose. If I hurt a girl now, I wouldn't even know that it was bad. Of course it is, but I wouldn't know it. Wait..." For a moment, the thought occurred to Tricky that if he knew it was bad now, then he would know it was bad while he was doing it, and he could stop himself. But then he forgot that he had thought that thought, and he forgot what he had been telling his acquaintance, and his acquaintance forgot that he had heard it.

_He almost hid his words._ Thought The Auditor with great apprehension. _Not quite well enough, but he was close. He _will_ get better at fighting me. What will happen if he has my power, but he's not under my control?_ IT asked ITSELF. The Auditor didn't know the answer. _If another human can't reign him in, he'll need to be killed. So be it._

_**SO BE IT.**_


	6. The Traitor

So, funding had been cut. And a weapons shipment had left North but never arrived at Base. And East Complex had swallowed 36 soldiers and forgotten to spit them back out.

There was, at this point, no question over whether these actions were connected. Flashy scare tactics had perfectly aligned to take his best fighting force, then their best weapons, then Sheriff Jay's best personal backup. Of course, the police weren't yet refusing to go on duty, but the Sheriff knew that if he forced them to work without pay, he'd soon lose them entirely. The station had instead turned into a playpen for them to gamble and Sheriff Jay to struggle desperately at restoring their salaries.

Even so, his officers were already turning on him. As it was, Sheriff Jay had stopped being the hand that fed the instant that Deputy Thomas, the bastard, had complained that his paycheck had failed to arrive. _No, _thought the Sheriff, _it wouldn't do to blame Tommygun. Blame whatever state accountant messed up our budget._ The Sheriff laughed at the thought of Deputy Thomas orchestrating any kind of plot. Tommy was a sensitive jokester that at least seemed loyal.

Sheriff Jay got off the phone frustrated. State accountants had been oblivious and unhelpful. He heard a bout of laughter through his office door. The murmured words sounded pleasant at the time, if only because the Sheriff felt lonely and didn't know their content. He leaned in to hear.

"...because _that's_ how you really get the job done. Hey, who wants to jump into a burning deathtrap for a key of Jay's..."

Whoever had been talking ceased as soon as the Sheriff stepped out of his office. They were all working diligently, radiating unspoken words and forcefully contained laughter. The Sheriff's eyes swept the room. Deputy Thomas wore a snakish smile - that was just Tommygun for you. The rest looked somber.

"I called accounting." Sheriff Jay said, scrutinizing the face of each officer. "It was a simple mistake. Funding will be returned by tomorrow."

One among them visibly flinched, but had returned to normal when Sheriff Jay sent a glance in their direction. It had come either from Deputy Thomas or an officer gripping her mug with white knuckles, one hand hiding her laughter. She'd need to be interrogated.

After all, Sheriff Jay did not care if his funding was cut. The Nevadan police force was barely effective in any case, and rarely needed. But Sheriff Jay would not tolerate dissidence under any circumstance.

"Officer, would you join me?" Sheriff Jay asked the white knuckled woman. He directed her into his office and shut the blinds. No one would know what had been said in this room.

"Please, take a seat." He advised. She did. "What do you think about the funding situation?" The Sheriff asked bluntly.

The girl looked confused. "Sir?"

Sheriff Jay waited impassively for her to answer. When she didn't, "Should I ask again?"

"No, sir." She shook her head. "I'm just... I assumed everyone felt the same about the funding. What I mean to say is that it's a bad situation. But it sounds like you just got it resolved."

The Sheriff was much taller than her. He also looked stronger, and he sat in his chair as though he owned the room, because he did. He sat as though he owned her. He sat as though he were in charge, and those in charge didn't need to speak. He could leave her in silence, averting her eyes, for as long as he liked.

Sheriff Jay used this luxury. By the time he spoke again, her knuckles were white for a different reason.

"What do you know about the funding, officer?"

It was just a whisper, but the tone was so deadly that water welled in her eyes. She shook her head quickly, unable to articulate a response.

"Did you do this?" The Sheriff asked.

"I'm sorry." She said. "We were talking about you, that's all, I'm sorry, we'll get to work, I know you're disappointed, please, I'm sorry, I wasn't doing anything, I thought it was funny, but we shouldn't have..."

The Sheriff silenced her with a bored hand. "Tell the officers to get out. Use those words."

She stood up with a hunch, grateful to be excused. "Yes, sir, I'm sorry, it was Deputy Thomas, and Jake, and, and..."

"Go."

She did, leaving Sheriff Jay to contemplate her impressive facade. With all her display of emotion, she was a likely perpetrator. _She cut funding and laughed about it._ And when he lied that he'd regained funding, she had likely been the one who flinched.

He'd make an example of her. That's what he thought as the building was emptied, leaving on no lights but the one in his office. He stared at his police radio on the table and toyed with thoughts of the East Complex while he plotted against that officer.

Those thoughts all were dispersed by the quiet crackle of static. A voice reached his ears just too softly to be discerned. He picked up the radio and held it near, listening for the distinct vocal noise he'd heard a moment before. "Hello?" He spoke into the receiver. "This is Sheriff Jay, who's communicating?"

He paid intent mind, searching the rolling static for that elusive hint of speech. He was listening too closely to notice that the radio was not tuned to any channel at all. Then he found it again, a clear note in the distorted jungle of noise.

Sheriff Jay's left ear rang. He was laying on the floor, clutching his head, a bit of blood coming away on his earlobe. The radio had returned to an ordinary volume, but the words were gone. He listened a bit more cautiously now, worried that the amplitude would spike once more. The static was still there, but the voice had leveled again to an incomprehensible murmur.

But it sounded desperate.

The voice tried again, finally reaching a volume not too loud and not too soft. "SOS, Sheriff Jay, this is the East Complex, please respond. I repeat, this is the East Complex, we are in distress, please respond. Over."

"Who is this? Over." Asked the Sheriff.

"This is..." The volume spiked again, then returned. "This is Unit Kara Harding of Squadron A, North Complex. We were sent to eradicate the hostiles in East Complex. We are trapped underground and require explosive... and medical... assistance. Over."

"Who's with you? Over." Asked Sheriff Jay.

"My group consisted of myself, Units Harry, James, Matt, and... two others... Units Erik and Alex. Only I and Unit James are left. James is in critical condition."

This was news. Sheriff Jay asked the first questions that came to him, stupid as they were. "How can you communicate? How did you find this frequency? Over."

There was silence at the other end.

"Unit Kara? Are you there? Over."

"You're not on a frequency, Sheriff Jay." Said the radio hesitantly. "I can feel... I think your radio is off."

Sheriff Jay checked.

"How are we talking, Kara?" He omitted the 'over'. There was no need.

The radio's speech became faster. "We had to survive." It whispered. "We didn't have anything to drink, we were hungry, the filters were almost gone. James... James had to take Matt's. And then, we were so thirsty, he, said there was one thing we could do."

Sheriff Jay was weighing the dangers against the benefits of sending reinforcements. On the one hand, having lost all East Complex soldiers and Squadron A of North Complex, The Agency would suffer drastically from a failed investment in retrieving these troops. On the other, if many soldiers could be easily returned from the East Complex, The Agency's best force would be regained.

Sheriff Jay decided to hedge his bets. He'd send a small group of soldiers under Unit Kara's guidance. And for the leader of the group...

"Kara, can you communicate to any radio, or is it just mine?" He asked. He was particularly sentimental towards this radio, and he'd rather not send it on his treacherous officer's suicide mission.

"I don't know." Came her meek answer.

"Try it now. Call in to the Nevada Police Radio and file some report - there's no one listening around this time. Frequency 111.01."

Sheriff Jay turned on his radio, already tuned to the proper channel, and listened for the girl's wavering voice. It worked.

By the time Kara had reestablished her special connection with Sheriff Jay's radio, he'd already orchestrated all the finer points of his extraction plan. "Tell me, Kara," Sheriff Jay began after he'd detailed the process of her extraction. "How did you acquire this communication ability? Any other powers come along with it?"

"I..." Kara was interrupted by a loud burst of static. There were gunshots from the other line. "James!" Came her distant screech, feet away from a radio dropped on the ground. "Come on, please, we can't fight them! James, come!"

Sheriff Jay listened, interest piqued. Maybe an extraction would not be so fruitful.

"Fffffuck that." Said a male voice. "Fffffuck their guns. I'll kill... I'll kill 'em with my _goddamn hands."_

"James!" Kara screamed. More gunshots. The loud crack of bone. Some laughter. The radio was picked back up, and Sheriff Jay could tell by the echoing footsteps that Kara was running down an underground tunnel. Yes, The Sheriff knew just where she was.

It occurred to him to ask if Kara could retrieve the shipment, but attempting such might have been overconfident at that time. "Get to safety, Kara, and remember to contact the frequency I gave you at 0800 hours tomorrow. I know there aren't any clocks down there, so we'll broadcast the time on that channel. Good luck." Said the Sheriff.

"Bring medicine." She said with a choke. He could tell she was crying. "Bring a medic. Bring everything you have."

The Sheriff nodded inaudibly, pocketed the radio, and donned his winter jacket. The nights were getting cold in Nevada.

Sheriff Jay drove home to an unexpected sight. Lights were on in his house, casting warmth against chilled air. He took his Colt into his hand and unlocked the door. Along with steaming warm air flooded out the scent of apple pie and cinnamon. He shut the door quietly behind him, as he didn't want to be noticed. But, entering the foyer, he'd already attracted attention.

Ellie never was shy. A slender arm lazily beckoned the Sheriff from the sofa, and he followed it, holstering his revolver. "How'd you get in here, pretty girl?"

She flicked him a little key. It was from under his welcome mat. He tossed it onto the coffee table and reclined in the soft chair beside her. It offered him a nice view of her shapely form, one leg stretched on the couch, one knee propped up on the cushion, one hand resting on the floor, the other across her bare breasts. Sheriff Jay's eyes were drawn between her legs.

"I didn't know you cooked." He said, breathing in the scent of the kitchen. She closed her eyes, and he watched the rise and fall of her chest. "You know I don't want us meeting at my house. You should've gone to that apartment."

"I only go where you tell me, Sheriff Jay." She said. She slunk off of the sofa and stood, stretched, went to the kitchen at the sound of a timer. Sheriff Jay heard a pie taken from the oven and set to cool on a rack. When Ellie returned, she straddled the Sheriff's lap, legs dangling over the arms of the chair. "Tell me where to go."

He tried to kiss her, but the escort only teased his lips with a light touch and pushed him firmly against the chair's back. She put his hands where she wanted them and cupped his cheek, proceeding with a sarcastic facade of conversation. "How was work today, Sheriff Jay?" She asked.

He vented funding cuts and burning complexes, then stopped himself at the second one. Sheriff Jay didn't trust Ellie, and it wouldn't do to tell her too much. Although, she probably didn't care enough to remember it after.

She prodded him to continue, asking about the East Complex. He told about a carjacker and an overarching plan to disable his forces, and even about the message he'd send when he put a dissident officer into a building that had released no man who'd entered.

"Why don't you bargain with this mysterious carjacker? Wouldn't that be less wasteful than throwing more resources at him?" She asked.

The Sheriff was caught off guard. Ellie never had opinions and she never made suggestions. This seemed wrong.

"I'd rather win than concede." Was his only answer. Sheriff Jay smiled, expecting to receive the eye-roll that Ellie always gave in place of a laugh. But she surprised him again.

"But it might be a choice between concession and loss. Then, would you rather lose?" She asked.

The Sheriff's ire was beginning to spark, and embers of suspicion had turned to rolling flames. "Why do you care, Ellie? Why did you -" Ellie interrupted him with a kiss, and he forgot what he'd been about to say.

"Oh, Sheriff Jay, I don't care about your guns and games." She said, running her hands down his neck, his chest, his pelvis, his crotch. "They aren't the games I like to play."

His suspicion had been quelled, and he let her take him to his room, where he stumbled on her pink purse before tumbling into bed. She got on top, because she was a top kind of girl. After they finished, she lulled him back into conversation, mocking Sheriff Jay's enemies as being so far beneath him that they were hardly worth fighting. He agreed huskily, and they went again. After a few hours she'd brought him to the brink of exhaustion, but she was as strong as ever.

"Do me a favor, Jay." She said, lips in a pout. That was odd. She'd never called him that before. "I need to be truthful with you. Things are getting a bit rough at work. Flow isn't so nice as he was when I met him, and... well, things are getting rough. I'm tired of Daddy Flow, and I'm tired of my work. You're the only client I enjoy anymore, and... to be honest... I've developed some feelings for you, Jay." Her voice trailed off, and she looked away from his eyes. "And the favor I want to ask is that you not get hurt."

The Sheriff was not certain about the implications of her statement, but if she thought she'd be leaving Daddy Flow for him, she was... well, maybe she wasn't mistaken. Sheriff Jay had never considered her to be more than what she was, but in all likelihood, being an escort was just the surface of her persona. Sheriff Jay'd never gotten to know someone like her before, and spending more time with her became an intriguing fantasy for a moment. He wondered what she was really like. He wondered if underneath the escort she was the same as other women that he detested. He wondered if she was truly as unique as she seemed now. "How do I not get hurt?" He asked her softly.

"Well, Jay, I think I want to be with you, but..." She wiped away a tear. "I can't stand to lose someone else. I can't take any more heartbreak. I don't want you to fight so hard. I don't want you to get people mad."

The Sheriff had never seen this side of Ellie before. It was especially exciting to see that after she'd showed her feelings, she was perfectly capable of reigning them back in. She now wore the same face that she always did, only wet from a tear.

Wait. What did this request really mean? She didn't want him to get anyone mad? Who was she talking about?

He remembered her earlier suggestion, and a knife wrenched in his gut. "Why did you come here, Ellie?" He asked, ice plain in his voice.

"You told me to." She said.

He stood from the bed and buckled his pants. "I don't know what interest you have in this matter, but you'd better take your clothes and get out of here. Now." He didn't hear her move. "Do you hear me? I told you to leave _now."_

She shifted. "Fine." She said. "But what about my payment?"

"I didn't ask you to come here, girl, you aren't getting a penny." Sheriff Jay heard a distinct texting sound followed by the note of a sent message.

"I just told Daddy Flow where I am. And I'm not leaving until you pay me. 150 is the standard rate." She spat. Sheriff Jay wasn't afraid of Daddy Flow. Daddy Flow was outnumbered and hopelessly outgunned in the face of the Sheriff.

The Sheriff turned and smacked her in the face, knocking her to the sheets. She gave a small whimper and began visibly trembling. He had hurt her. He was struck with an immediate desire to give her consolation, but instead put venom in his voice when he told her, "Stay as long as you like. You aren't getting shit from me."

The Sheriff needed a drink. He was on his way to the living room when he heard a rustling behind him, then the click of a hammer. He turned to see Ellie, still naked, pulling a long pistol from her pink bag. He couldn't see her face under a curtain of silky hair. It was at this moment that Sheriff Jay recognized the experimental Sub-Laboratory weaponry that his escort was holding, and realized that his anger had been horribly misdirected.

When she raised her head, her tears were dry and her eyes were black.

"You're an intelligent man, Sheriff Jay. I learned long ago that I need intelligent men, and that I can't keep them intelligent and force them into service at the same time. So you're going to make a deal with me, whether you know it or not. You may as well hear my conditions before you escalate our conflict." Ellie said in a voice that wasn't her own.

_They think they can manipulate me through her, because they don't think I'd harm her._ Thought the Sheriff. _Maybe this will send a message._

"I'd have you shoot me before I made any deal with you." He said. He grabbed her forearm and gun and pulled the barrel against his stomach, jerking her off balance. "Go ahead." He said when she'd steadied herself. "Shoot me."

The Sheriff was not expecting her to shoot him. He soon learned of the wonders of Agency technology, though, when the bullet exited his back and ended up under a few feet of dirt in his backyard. However, he did not clutch in pain at his stomach. He pulled his revolver and shot her wrist in one motion. Blood poured from a severed artery, spilling over her experimental weapon.

She kicked his bullet wound and he crashed through the door, falling onto the living room carpet. She straddled him again, but this time to pin him down, and wrapped her hands again around his neck, but this time to choke him.

"Give in to me. Now." She demanded. He grabbed a thick lock of her hair and yanked her head back, exposing the taut skin of her neck.

He nearly kissed it.

Instead, he threw her to the ground and stood. His gun hung loosely by his side as he watched her back away on all fours into the foyer. "Wait!" She begged, eyes returned to their ordinary color. "Please don't."

Her head painted the door behind her, and a few holes in her chest ensured her death. Sheriff Jay didn't know what conditions the black-eyed creature could survive.

The Sheriff allowed himself no remorse, and the girl no pity. An aggressor in one's own home ought to be dealt with violently, that's what his father would have said, the bastard. But wrong as he often was, his father would've been right then. The girl - or, whatever was manipulating her - had tried to coerce him into cooperation, extort his aid in whatever psychotic plan had killed the entire East Complex and any who entered.

And the Sheriff would not tolerate the former.

Slowly, wearily, the Sheriff walked to his room and retrieved Ellie's pink bag. It was filled with silly things: makeup, money, knives. The Sheriff pulled out her cell phone and took it back to the foyer. He read the last three messages.

_9:54pm to 'Flo' - Come. Afraid._

The Sheriff almost laughed. She was just as terse in text as she was in person.

_6:32pm to 'Flo' - At Sheriff Jay's house. Unusual. Be nearby._

Yes, it was unusual. Sheriff Jay would have to sever his connection with Daddy Flow due to the abnormality of the situation. So when he read her next text, received at 1730 hours, he dropped the phone to the floor, screen shattering on the hardwood. He pulled his own phone from his pocket and dreaded what he'd find.

_5:30pm to 'Ellie' - Wait at my house. Key is under the doormat._

No.

Sheriff Jay had not sent that.

What?

Sheriff Jay _had not sent that._

His phone had never left his person that day. He'd felt it in his pocket or seen it in his hand at all times. The Sheriff could only think that someone had accessed it remotely, but he was the only one who knew his passwords. Except, of course, for his carrier, which had direct access to its clients' messaging systems.

The clock struck ten, and there was a knock at Sheriff Jay's door. "I'm a bit busy." The Sheriff said. "Come back later."

"I think I'll come in now." The door said back. Sounded like a woman. "Flow wants to talk to you."

"Flow can talk to me later. Leave now." Demanded the Sheriff. There was silence for a moment, then Sheriff Jay's door came off its hinges and crashed on the floor. In the permanently open doorway stood a cordially dressed woman and what looked to be a gun-wielding bodybuilder.

The woman's jaw dropped when she saw Ellie.

The bodybuilder stood impassive, another Agency gun in hand.

"Whatever deal y'all made, y'all shouldn't'a made it." The Sheriff's accent came gruff when he was angry. It was the only indication of such: His face was as inscrutable as ever.

"Brutus." The woman said, and Brutus raised his gun. The woman was soon gaping at two fresh corpses.

"Why don't y'all run and tell your pimp what happened." Goaded the Sheriff. She took the offer with gratitude.

Sheriff Jay would take care of the bodies later. What he needed now was a stiff drink. He poured himself a fifth of Scotch, no ice, and took it with his apple pie. The first bite was crumbly and sweet, teaching him of a girl who cooked with too much sugar.

He let the radio drone while he drank, if only to keep away the quiet. But it reminded him of nights in his apartment, so he tried the television. But he saw women all over the screen, so he let the silence return. It was broken by a tone from his cell, then three more in rapid fire.

_10:02 from 'D.F.' - you broke my property_

_10:02 from 'D.F.' - you're a dead man, sheriff_

_10:02 from 'D.F.' - i'm coming for you soon_

_10:03 from 'D.F.' - expect me_

Sheriff Jay began to consider the implications of Ellie and Brutus's weapons. It dawned on him that the missing shipment of weapons had correlated directly with Ellie's newfound firepower. The Sheriff started to wonder not only if Daddy Flow had taken Jay's shipment, but if he was also behind the recent funding cut in his department. And maybe even the disaster at the East Complex.

But, why do whatever Daddy Flow had done to the escort? Why knowingly send her to die, then upset himself over it? Was the pimp merely looking for a reason to fight? Of course, the girl had tried to convince him to cooperate with whoever was causing all of these problems. Maybe she was truly intended to be successful.

Further confusing would be the sudden interest in dominance that Daddy Flow would have shown. For years, the pimp was a good companion to all of his clients, and his primary client was a large benefactor of his operation, so why turn to fire and theft? Nor did the Sheriff understand what the girl had said about 'needing intelligent men'. This seemed to be an assault far larger than some pimp's desire for power. Most likely, Ellie was just a small piece in whoever's game was being played. A small piece who'd attempted a big move. And Sheriff Jay had thwarted it.

He gave himself a mental pat on the back for having the fortitude to end the play without hesitation. And tomorrow, he'd strike another blow against his invisible enemy by giving one of its agents a burning, East Complex death.

He fell asleep with glass in hand.

And awoke to the stench of morning corpses. It may have been a mistake to let them dry on the floor, but Sheriff Jay was _the _Sheriff Jay, after all, and he wasn't likely to be investigated. A gate around his yard kept his neighbors from seeing two problems through his open doorway. It was 0600 hours. He dragged them into his backyard where he burned them in the fire pit, then mopped the blood off of the floor and walls. It didn't take too long. Only thirty minutes work required to seamlessly remove two people from Nevada.

Only a few people showed up to work today. It was Friday, after all, and they still hadn't been paid. Among them were Deputy Thomas, the probably treacherous police-woman, and a few other unimportant people, all equipped with plenty of cards to play and words to shoot the breeze.

One of them was not equipped for the day's task. "Officer." Said the Sheriff to the police-woman. "You have a very important task today. Head to North Complex for your instructions."

"What's my task?" She asked.

"To become the greatest hero in SINPD history. You might save up to 32 people today." 36 units had gone into the complex, but Unit Kara had already confirmed four of them dead. "Tally-ho."

An hour later, the police-woman and her small group of North Complex units, selected from the prestigious Squadron A, (formerly Squadron B), would be heading into the facility. Sheriff Jay wanted to give his officers a show. They needed to see the results of dissidence. He tuned their radios all to the frequency he'd given Unit Kara so that they could listen to the ensuing havoc at East Complex.

Kara's voice connected them all with bell-like clarity. No 'overs' would be needed today. "Okay, officer." She said. "Enter the barracks at the center of the complex. Prepare for hostile forces."

The officer reported that her group had entered the building and was sweeping the first floor.

"Now, descend to Floor B2. Use the stairs. Once you're there, there's a hidden door at the end of the hallway. Take some time to find it."

Two floors and half a hallway's worth of footsteps.

"What is that?" Came a voice through the speakers. _"What the hell is that?"_

Someone vomited over the radio.

"Bodies." Was the response. It came from a shaken officer.

"These," said a member of North Complex's new Squadron A, "are the bodies of Erik and Alex. I played pingpong with them in the Rec Room."

Everyone was very quiet. "They're dead." Said Kara. "You can go around them."

"How did this happen?" Asked the officer. "Who killed these men?"

"The things we're fighting against." Said Kara automatically, the loyal soldier in her showing its face. "They aren't a who, they're a what. And you all are the only ones who'll stand against them: Good Agency units."

The sound of a body swishing on its noose came through the speakers while the units slid past. Ever the thorough reporter, the officer described the body swinging from the ceiling, the brainless corpse leaning against the wall, and even the lone finger on the ground.

Soon enough, the group had arrived at the hidden door. "Should we open it?" Asked the officer.

Kara was silent for a moment. Splashing water sounded through the radios, then what seemed like a violent struggle. A string of pops. A grunt. A death.

"Yes." Kara said through heavy panting. "But hostile forces are extremely likely. Stay vigilant."

"It's very cold." Remarked some group member when the station heard a door creak open. He was quickly warmed up by a spray of hot bullets.

The police station filled the next minutes with open jaws and tightly clenched fists. Shots and cries echoed from the radios.

"Find the open grate!" Kara yelled.

"Run, run, run, get away from the cells, shit, shit, get in that cell, kill it kill it kill it fuck its got me fuckfuckfuckfuck, we have to get out of he-, fuckfuckfuckfuckfu-, it's right there the grate is right there it's-, fuckfuckfuckfuck..."

The sound from the radio became little more than a babble of voices, only a few words discernible through gunshots and shouts. When a unit died, his radio stayed alive, and everyone on the frequency could hear what was being done to his body. Kara attempted to shut off this function, but didn't succeed until the group had exited the prison. Six radios were shut off, and two units were stuck alive in a cell, so Kara guided them down some other route.

This meant that there were four left alive in the group of the ten that had entered. Six had died in their first brush with battle, likely due to their combat inexperience. The Sheriff held no wonder whether the other four would fall.

Someone in the station vomited into their trash can. Whoever it was was the only one to do so, but everyone else had equally disgusted looks. Everyone but the Sheriff.

Kara guided the group of four together again. "Do you see tire tracks going down the tunnel? Good. Follow them all the way until the crashed truck."

Footsteps, and comments on the sheer number of bodies lying around the tracks. "This is a massacre." Someone said. The group walked only for a few hours, never meeting any of the dead ends that Kara had. The police station was kept engaged by harsh battles of ever increasing frequency. The officer reported that their ammo had run out and that they'd be fighting with only their knives. The officer reported on the incredible strength of their enemies. The officer reported on the death of another group member.

Eventually, the officer reported on seeing the same thing as Kara: The inside of a specific stone cavern. The Sheriff wondered if they'd truly make it out now, if they were moments from blasting through the ceiling of the tunnel and climbing the rubble to a location a few miles from the East Complex. Then he heard a crackle on the radio. He first thought it was radio static, but the longer he listened, it seemed to sound closer to fire.

"Officer Eila reporting to base." Said the deathbound police-woman with a quivering voice. "We are out of ammunition. There are too many of them to fight. This... this will be my last report."

There were no gunshots to be heard.

"Over and out."

The Sheriff turned off his radio, content just to watch the faces of his fellow police force as they witnessed the punishment for treason through agonized radio waves. They all stuck with the sound for the final minutes of their colleague's life, but there were no cheers of encouragement, no smiles. There were only blank stares as a dissident officer turned to a confirmed kill.

Gradually, the radios shut off.

Heads were held in hands, a trance overtook some.

There was too much shock for tears.

"Officer Eila made a valiant effort." Said the Sheriff solemnly. "It's a shame that some of her friends weren't here for her last moments."

This struck a deep pang of remorse into Sheriff Jay's officers, until, "That's bullshit," slipped from Deputy Thomas's mouth.

Sheriff Jay gave him a calculating glance. "Her death?"

"Those creatures are like a virus." Said the deputy. He was still very quiet. "An incurable virus. One that 36 of the best men in the world couldn't fight. They don't 'think', Jay, they aren't the 'enemy'. They're just... a force of nature. They're a certain death. And you knew that."

The deputy was quiet again. Then he stood up straight, knocking back his chair. He made his way to the door and left without a word.

No one reacted to Deputy Thomas's speech. Sheriff Jay could only watch as they processed it, wondering just what level of evil their chief had attained.

As if to grind even deeper the salt that Deputy Thomas had shaken onto the Sheriff's wound, he burst in again through the door, barely containing a righteous fury. "Well, it turns out that I can't leave." Deputy Thomas said through his agitation. Some heat was seeping past the cracks of his quiet tone. "All four of my tires are slashed."

At this, the deputy stalked back over to his desk, kicking his chair out of the way and slapping his hand down on a piece of paper. "Is it because of this, Jay?" He asked, brandishing it like a weapon. "Is it because we've been _fucking _with you a little bit? Fine, then, if it gets my goddamn tires slashed by a goddamn child of a sheriff, take the goddamn thing! You'll never see another one like it, Sheriff _fucking _Jay!" He crumpled the photo and threw it at the Sheriff's feet. "Because I'm done here. I quit."

Sheriff Jay had a feeling that this wasn't a two weeks notice.

"Can anybody with intact tires give me a ride home?" The deputy asked with venom. He was immediately offered aid by everyone in the office. In turn, each of them left, every one giving Sheriff Jay a loathing look.

Sheriff Jay was alone again. He bent over and picked up the piece of paper from the floor. It was a picture, crumpled now, of the Sheriff entering a hotel room with a prostitute. It was an unexpected photo, seemingly taken from a security camera of the hotel Sheriff Jay had so often visited. _In retrospect,_ thought the Sheriff, _assuming that Officer Eila had broken funding was a far conclusion to jump to._ He went to Deputy Thomas's files and searched until he found the one he was looking for.

The NA-667 was a form of necessary submission once a month for all SIN government services. Without it, the results could be drastic for certain branches of government. Knowing this as a simple, basic fact, Sheriff Jay had sent in the form about two weeks ago. Yet, here it was, laying in Deputy Thomas's first drawer.

Then the Sheriff remembered. Just like Ellie, Deputy Thomas had tried to convince him to deal with the ones who'd attacked East Complex. The Sheriff could tell that Tommygun was the only one involved in his own tires being slashed. And now Sheriff Jay had lost his police force and his most valuable Agency assets.

His plots had failed, his schemes had fallen through. The Sheriff was left with nothing but enemies on every front. His only ally was The Agency, but The Agency was in the process of being violently castrated. Maybe he could save it. Maybe he could help it before it was destroyed, use it to regain some semblance of power.

He returned home with this on his mind. Even with all the enemies around him, at least he still got to live in luxury. He imagined the drinks he would pour, the movies he could relax to when he got back.

He entered his house. He found his luxury gone, his bottles smashed, and his television cracked. Everything breakable was broken, and even unbreakable things like the floor were bashed with hammers and shot to splinters. A text came to his phone. Just Daddy Flow asking if the Sheriff was enjoying his renovations.

He took a trip to Base Complex, praying to any god that would listen that it wouldn't be sending black smoke into the sky. It wasn't, so he used his ID to pass the steep gates and enter the front building, Base Headquarters and Communications. He was an honored guest at The Agency, so there was no need to set up an appointment. But the CEO of The Agency was nowhere to be found. Nor were the Base Complex Director, Task Director, or anyone else that the Sheriff needed. He found this while asking the secretary for a meeting, and realized that although the Complex was not burning, it had been crippled in far more subtle ways. The soldiers of North Complex still remained, though. Not nearly all of the new Squadron A had been sent to East Complex with the probably-not-dissident officer, so plenty of firepower was left at the Sheriff's disposal. But when the Sheriff asked about this, he was given some very poor news.

"I've been told that our remaining units are being held carefully in reserves until they've undergone further training. We're operating at a deficit of units as it is. We can't afford to send any more on threatening missions at the moment, at least not until we've rebuilt our militia. I'm very sorry Sheriff Jay." She said with a look of earnest regret.

The Sheriff was running low on options. "I need these troops very badly." He said. "For self defense. Not very many of them, even. But my life is in danger. Please, tell me. Is there anything I can do?"

The secretary sighed. "I was told... strange events have taken place, Sheriff Jay, I'm sure you're very aware of that. Little as we'd like to show it, the Agency has fallen on hard times. Half our board of directors is... just gone, in the sense that we can't even find them. But the owner of the Agency does have a deal he might cut you."

"What is it?" The Sheriff demanded.

"The Agency has lost most of its structure. Shareholders are vanishing from thin air, and more than anything else right now, what we need is intelligent men. The owner told me that whoever can lend support to The Agency will have access to its full resources, and he's said that unlikely as it was for you to join, you'd be his favorite candidate to control what's left of The Agency. He'd leave all major decisions up to your discretion - he truly believes in your ability to repair our system. And, I assume that in your situation you might be more open to the idea."

This required little thought on the part of Sheriff Jay. The resources of this organization were being handed to him on a silver platter, and all he had to do was assume control. "If I were to accept, what responsibilities would I have?" He asked.

"You'd be required to follow any instructions that the owner gives you, but I'm told that this would be minimal. This might include sending your troops after certain hostiles or devoting funding to certain areas. Again, he trusts you to take care of things." She said. The Sheriff could tell that The Agency's owner hadn't thought Sheriff Jay would truly hear this offer. But the event had aligned in perfect position to save the Sheriff.

"I accept." He said without hesitation. "Let the owner give me any order he wants. I'm beyond happy to trade the police station for The Agency itself."

The secretary smiled. "We're beyond happy to have you."

"The only other thing is that my home is no longer livable. Can The Agency provide accommodations for me?" He asked.

The secretary stood. "All three of our Complex Directors are gone. You can house yourself in any one of their B1 floors... well, except East Complex, for obvious reasons. In fact, the B1 room here would be ready to house you immediately."

Sheriff Jay breathed in the air of a new start. He accepted, and let the pretty secretary lead him to his luxurious floor. He wasn't sure exactly what Agency position he'd accepted, only that he was in control. He decided to retain the title 'Sheriff', as he'd grown fond of it in his years of policing SIN.

"Say, I never learned the name of The Agency's owner." He told the secretary.

"He's a bit enigmatic. Your stereotypical eccentric millionaire." She joked. "We just call him Mr. A."


	7. The Savior

"No one has ever gone into heaven except the one who came from heaven—the Son of Man."

As always, his father spoke with passion. Pacing steps, energy-filled pauses, and calculated winks to the audience. James leaned in a bit closer. His favorite part was coming up soon.

"Just as Moses lifted up the snake in the wilderness, so the Son of Man must be lifted up, that everyone who believes may have eternal life in him."

The pews were packed to capacity so that there was standing room only in the church. No listener was bored, and none wanted to leave. James held his breath for his favorite verse of the Bible, the one he'd read over and over again.

"For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him. Whoever believes in him is not condemned, but whoever does not believe stands condemned already because they have not believed in the name of God's one and only Son."

James mouthed the words just as his father spoke them. They filled him with joy, gave him faith that his mother would have eternal life, that they would all be lifted up. And those who'd mocked James? Those who'd mocked God? The Bible told him that all of them stood condemned already.

"This is the verdict: Light has come into the world, but people loved darkness instead of light because their deeds were evil. Everyone who does evil hates the light, and will not come into the light for fear that their deeds will be exposed. But whoever lives by the truth comes into the light, so that it may be seen plainly that what they have done has been done in the sight of God."

His father closed the Bible quietly. Now, James expected his father to be silent for a time, to keep the audience anticipating the next words of the sermon.

His father took his time putting away the Bible, stepping in slow, sweeping motion, and setting it down gently, like the sacred thing it was. His father closed his eyes in serenity before he spoke again.

"I am tempted." He said plainly. The words radiated without shame or concern. "Each day I see temptations, because I am Man."

James knew that this would be his father's confession.

"This is my confession, friends of the church. Every day I feel some pain, every day I feel some anger. Every day I feel some spite, every day I feel some envy. Some days I give in to temptation. Yesterday, I spoke harshly against a medical professional. I was angry at pain, and I bit the hand that was trying its best to aid my wife."

James never heard his father's sermons before the masses did. James liked the feeling of discovering great words in the midst of his flock. But he also liked the thrill of knowing the words before they'd been spoken.

"Harsh words are not the path of light, my friends. Harsh words come from darkness, and as regrettable as it is, each among us commit uncountable sins."

_So,_ James thought, _don't love harsh words._

"But we read in scripture not that the condemned are those who commit darkness. We do not read that harsh words lead to condemnation. We read only that the condemned are the ones who love darkness. We read that the condemned are the ones who love their harsh words."

Another pause. No 'ums' or 'uhs' would be heard tonight. If his father ever needed to think about his next words, he would not let it be known by speaking incoherently. 'Um' was uncertain. Silence was powerful.

"Every day I give some regret, every day I give some recompense. Every day I give some penance, every day I give some apology."

And his father didn't love harsh words.

"Because I speak harsh words, but I don't love them. I'm never proud of my anger, I never revel in spite. I am not afraid to think of them as mistakes. I'm not afraid to speak of them as such. Because I believe in God, and inhabit a world spilling over with light."

His father had shared enough anecdote. It was time to turn his light to the audience. And, James predicted a bit of noise.

"Friends! Do not be afraid of your darkness! Don't be afraid to expose it, to turn on it the light of truth, because this is the _only _way darkness is overcome! You walk each day with an almighty shepherd, and like Moses, Jesus never sets down his torch! When you fear the darkness is when you distrust your shepherd, and when you distrust your shepherd is when you stray into the darkness!"

The audience was riveted. James watched closely, constructing the most likely progression of the speech. Next would be a tragedy.

"We all remember the shooting at Nevada High." He said. The audience shivered; James's father had fearlessly pressed on a fresh wound. James's father refused to censor himself. "The perpetrators were not the kind to repent for their sins. They were not the kind to let light into the darkness. If they had been, they wouldn't have killed themselves at the end of their massacre. Suicide was a cheap way for them to run from the light. Pray to God, and he'll assure you that those who recognize and repent for the darkness will not be driven to such extremes."

Audiences didn't like to feel tense, of course. His father would ease them back with a bit of humor.

"Some sins can be smaller than others. My old beard, for example..." His father said with a smile. The audience gave nervous laughter. "Luckily, that sin didn't drive me into darkness. He told me in a dream that it wasn't the world wonder I thought it was." Another laugh. "Or maybe that was just my wife whispering in my ear. Well, it is just as righteous to protect the ones you love, I suppose."

James had thought of a better joke. But that one had served plenty well. James studied the remainder of the sermon, always thinking of his favorite verse.

James complimented his father at the end of the sermon, praising his passion. "Oh, please." Said his father, waving off the congratulations. "False praise gives no solace to this older man. My prose is getting tiresome to our audience. They want somebody young."

This again. James's heart beat faster at the thought of it. "I'm no speaker. Not like you. I could never write something so moving."

His father laughed, eyes twinkling, and patted James on the back. "You are God's creation, are you not?" He asked. James nodded. "Well, doubting God's creation is a hazardous sin. We all play a part in His plan, and I think we both know what your part is." His father said, wearing a goofy face.

"Maybe someday." James replied.

His father thought for a moment. "You're very quiet, James. A soft spoken man. There's no trouble with this, only that for you, I think it arises from your level of confidence."

James didn't reply. He supposed he was too soft spoken for that.

"You'll trust the creator, James. Actually, I think you'll trust him next Sunday." Said his father with a smirk. James knew exactly what his father meant. He knew that his father would let him out of a sermon if that was what James wished, but he also knew that his father would not let him escape the guilt of doing so, and that James would end up speaking regardless of what he said now. He decided so skip this process and agree.

"Alright." James said. His father's eyebrows raised high.

"Really?" His father asked. "I thought that would be a battle."

It never would have been. James was excited for the speech, already constructing a few memorable phrases in his head. By the time they'd driven home, he'd picked just which passages to include, planned a stirring outline, and conceived psychologically surgical rhetoric.

He told his mother about his planning as soon as he got home.

"I might not be as animated as dad, and I probably won't enunciate as well. But I know what a sermon looks like, and that's something of dad's I can surely emulate. The creation. Maybe not the delivery." He told her.

She put an adoring hand on his shoulder. It was frailer than ever before, but her frailty was the only thing James didn't notice. He was too intent on his mothers sharpened mind to notice her dulled body. "Delivery comes with confidence. Enunciation, energy, projection, and all the rest. An infant confident enough could engage a listening crowd."

James smiled. His mother and father were both funny, but James took after his mother's humor. "Calling me an infant isn't doing anything to bolster my confidence, mom."

She laughed, but it turned in to a cough. He grabbed her water without thinking about it. Coughs didn't matter until blood came with them.

"Dad uses your illness as inspiration for his sermons. He talks about the pain in illness, the pain in life, and how he and the flock can overcome it. But I don't think that would work for me."

She furrowed her brow. "Why not? Am I not sick enough for you?"

He shook his head. "When dad sees you, he worries about the illness, how we're going to cure it, how it's hurting you. Every moment of pain it causes you probably causes the same to him tenfold. But when I see you, I don't see the illness at all. My sermon will still be inspired by you, but it won't be about overcoming the illness and fighting the darkness. It'll be about seeing the joy and enjoying the light."

His mother agreed. "Why spend all your time warring against the bad when you could be campaigning for the good? One sounds much more fun than the other."

James smiled at that. A nice, concise way of putting his words. His mother understood him. James was reminded of an old place they used to go, a pretty grove that only the two of them knew about. She'd gone there as a child, and had passed the place on to James.

"I know that my sickness has limited my attendance at church, but I need to see your sermon. After all, it might be the only one I'll ever see from you." She said dryly. James was upset.

"That doesn't sound like a campaign for the good, mom." He said. She laughed.

"It's not, but I think I don't think my campaigning will matter for much longer." His mother.

"It'll matter to dad and me." James said without thinking. "And it will matter to you too. We've been seeing the best doctors in the world."

"Then the world must really not give a shit." She muttered. She apologized for swearing in front of James, but he would only be comfortable if she were comfortable, so he told her that apology was unnecessary.

James thought about his mother's words. "I suppose I can't ask you to hope that you'll get better." He assumed. "But dad would say..." James caught himself. Dad would say that faith in the shepherd was the only path to righteousness. Dad would imply that his mother didn't have enough faith, and he would make her feel guilty of sin. James didn't think that would help his mother. "Why don't you wait until the sermon." He said, and left. This really would need to be special.

James scribbled words every day of that week. Easy classes weren't nearly enough to divert his attention from the sermon to come. He took biblical notes during lectures, drove concepts on the way home, ate scripture for dinner, dreamed of eternal sleep, and woke to developed thoughts. His days of being were replaced by days of writing, and he had so much material by the end of the week that he had to shear huge chunks of it to keep it short enough. What he had left after all the editing was only the best portions of his writings. His father pestered him incessantly for details, but James would not tell him a thing.

The Sunday of the speech finally arrived. The sanctuary seemed different to James now that he'd be on stage. His father gave the standard greeting and said a few words, then introduced James as a first time speaker. He was received with a torrent of applause.

He stepped up to the podium. His notes were written clearly on the paper before him, but James had already memorized the speech. He searched the crowd for the churchgoer that hadn't gone to church for months. There she was. She looked fragile to the flock around her, but James saw intent, intelligent eyes.

"Perception." James said. It wasn't a word that often came from this stage, as there was only one perspective the flock was intended to have: one looking from the earth to heaven. But it was important. Without perception, how would the first man have perceived his creator? "Our perception is our eyes, our hands, our ears, our tongue, our nose. You all are good at focusing, my father can attest to that. He's good at keeping your attention on the Bible, where it should be. God would have us look first to him, then to others, then to ourselves. Your eyes see me speak, your ears hear my words. You all know how to perceive God, how to see him through the sermon. God, others, self. You're good at the first, but I wonder if you skip over the second."

James scanned the crowd. He was paying attention to the second right now. Not the first, not the third. All on his mind were the reaction and presumed thoughts of the audience. They didn't understand, he could tell, which they weren't used to. They could always comprehend the words of his father. Still, he pressed on.

"I believe that you see others. You see me as a piece in God's plan, the deliverer of my own interpretation of the Bible. You wonder whether you'll enjoy my sermon, or whether you won't. You see each other sometimes as helpers, and the rest of the time as obstacles. You see you spouses and children in mostly a positive light, as things that make you feel happy. Sometimes you see them as things that make you upset or exasperated." James said.

Some of the crowd was nodding assent. They were beginning to understand this concept of perception, and how they saw everything around them. But even if they thought they did, they had no clue as to the sermon's direction.

"This is selfish." He said. He allowed a pause for his audience to process the three words, then continued. "You see me as a thing that gives you words, and my value is based on whether you like the words or not. You see each other as things that help or hinder you, and their value is based on which one of those they do, and how well they do it. You see your families as things that make you feel happy, and their value is based on their never making you not so."

He'd made the crowd uncomfortable, but not with a tragedy. With accuracy.

"It is only human to be selfish." He consoled. "So long as we try to help those in need, how can we be blamed for the nature of our minds? There's nothing sinful about selfishness. But I wonder, might increased perception yield extra enjoyment to the self?" James studied the audience. Even now, he perceived what their minds said.

"Illness is painful. It's the first thing you'll perceive, but it is uncomfortable, and it will have little value to you. You'll retract your attention from something as soon as it hurts. And in doing so, you'll fail to see anything but the pain. I posit that any pain can contain pleasure, any sorrow can contain joy. Perceive the good." Now the audience was beginning to see. James wasn't sure, but maybe some of them, maybe his father was seeing a healthy woman's mind in the light of comprehension. Or in the light of God.

"'Whoever lives by the truth comes into the light, so that it may be seen plainly that what they have done has been done in the sight of God.' So, live by the truth. Come into the light. Be seen by God. And let also the rest of the world live by truth, come into your light, be seen by you. You're created in God's image, and God is infinitely perceptive. You may not be omniscient, but you can be perceptive, just like Him."

James continued. The rest of his sermon was more standard for this church, and allowed them to relax their walls in the sight of the Lord. He incorporated all of his hard built rhetoric and lines, and left the stage to the loudest clapping he'd ever heard in this room.

After the service, his father seemed awestruck. James was generally quiet around his father, honestly in reverence, so had seemed a radical leap from James's ordinary demeanor. His mother just smiled, though. Together, they always spoke like this. She only spoke about his sermon when they were alone and he was helping her into bed.

"Touching sermon." She said. "I think it's obvious that you have a gift for that delivery you were so worried about."

He laughed. "Maybe so. I've been watching expert delivery for the past sixteen years."

She sighed as she rested her head on the pillow. "Sixteen years. You've gotten old, James."

"Nearly a senior citizen." He quipped.

"You jest, but sixteen years is a long time. Just think, you've gone from an infant with nothing in its head to a man contemplating perception and calculus." She said.

"Calculus is just school. An infant could do it." He replied.

"But with all your sixteen years of perceiving, you never learned how to perceive." She continued. This stopped him entirely. The conversation he thought was a game for him to easily play had transformed into a complex, obscure beast of a puzzle.

"I perceive. Better than the rest of our flock, probably. Didn't my sermon show perception?" He asked. He really couldn't predict what concepts his mother would bring.

"Your perception is strong, if only you'd use it. You tell your audience to perceive the good in the world, just like you do. You tell them to determine what others are feeling and thinking, not just what other's are doing to them. But you perceive no more fully than they do. You perceive what you want to perceive." His mother thought about her next words carefully. "My world is ending." She said. "That is something quite clear, but you never would have imagined it happening."

"Yes I would." He answered. "I know that death comes for everyone. But it doesn't need to come for you yet."

She shook her head. "Firstly, it has come for me twice in the past month, only barely to be fended off. Secondly, you still fail to perceive my full meaning."

He tried to perceive what her full meaning might be. All he could think was that she had resigned herself to death, given up faith in medicine. She didn't seem to be saying anything more than that.

"I suppose that nobody's perception is perfect. So, tell me what to see, and I'll see it." He said. "Just tell me."

She shook her head again. "That's not perception. That's cordiality. And that is unhelpful for anyone, the selfless or the selfish."

"Mom, I..." He began.

"You should go." She said. "I need a little time."

He talked to his father about the sermon after he'd left the room. His father hadn't perceived the meaning underneath the words, the one about sickness, but he'd loved it in any case. "They want you again next Sunday." His father said. "I accepted for you, so don't worry about trying to refuse. It's fine if it's hard to top the whopper you gave during the service - Sunday is Easter, and they'll be looking for something lighthearted. I anticipate the day."

So did James. But he couldn't keep his mother's words out of his mind. How could he be imperceptive? He'd mastered perception, from perfect predictions to skillful crowd manipulation. What more was there to perceive?

The week went by quickly. School was light, so he had plenty of time to write for the service and talk to his mother. Their talks were of ever increasing joy to James. Each day she seemed to be happier to see him than the last. Importance steadily drained from their conversations, and the burden of thought was lifted from his shoulders whenever he saw her. The thought of her sitting through his lighthearted Easter sermon was just too exciting. He was hopeful about her future, and loved her beyond compare, and on Saturday night she died.

He didn't actually believe it, of course, even when he saw her body being wheeled out of the house and taken to a mortuary. She could not possibly be dead, because God's plan would not have included that, and he perceived a great faith from the Lord, and he wanted to put off his sermon until she could be there for it. He told his father that he couldn't give the words. He needed time for healing.

"You're right, James, you do need healing. Church is how we heal. And as for giving a sermon, there is no greater catharsis." Said his father. James hadn't seen his father cry yet. Just further proof that his mother was alright.

James entered the church Easter morning, prepared near the community had already been shaken by the death of his mother, and they didn't know what to expect from the boy who'd just lost his entire world. So when his speech began chipper and dapper as ever, they were put off.

James began, with plenty of jokes, to discuss the gifts and miracles of God. Omit all the surface bad, he'd deliver them perception of the purest good. James talked first about biblical miracles, then about miracles in his own life. When he mentioned the miracle of rebirth in reference to his mother, the crowd began to murmur.

And his father began to weep.

James perceived this. It seemed unusual, considering that his mother would be reborn. Didn't his father know this? Didn't he have the proper faith?

No, his father had to have the proper faith. He was the pastor. He'd taught James everything James knew about God. So, his father was faithful, but still didn't believe that his mother would be reborn. One of great faith believed that his mother was dead.

_Even so, _James thought, _we'll see her once we, too, ascend to heaven. It will all come in time._ He knew for a certainty that his father would agree with that. Maybe James should have perceived that his mother would die, and he should have consoled her with words of the afterlife.

But then James remembered something his mother had said. "My world is ending," she had said. This was strange wording, wasn't it? She could have said that her life was ending, or simply that she was about to die. James remembered how carefully she had thought about her words before she'd said what she'd said.

Then James understood. Her life wasn't just ending. Her entire consciousness was. His mother had believed that when she died, there would be no heaven to receive her. And she had been right that she was close to death.

His mother was right. She was more perceptive than he had ever been, for though he looked deeper than most, he still never saw what he didn't wish to see. He'd seen through her illness so thoroughly that he missed the illness itself. Now he knew that he'd applied that same selective vision to the church he loved.

James's arms fell to his side, papers drifting carelessly to the floor. The sermon was over. The jokes had dried, shrunk, and flaked to dust. James was done.

He didn't go home. And hard as his father tried to find him, James knew a place where he'd never be discovered. The old grove that he and his mother had picnicked at when he was a child. He remembered what his mother had said about the place.

"I found it as a girl. It was the only place I could go when my parents were yelling and my friends were being stupid." She'd smiled to a toddler who could identify with the second.

There was no yelling here. But James felt a great deal of stupidity.

"That's why I never showed my friends or my parents. Even your dad doesn't know. You're the only one, James." She'd said.

So, his mother wouldn't be reborn. She wouldn't live on in heaven. The church had been wrong. The church had _lied_. The pastors were evil. Christianity was evil.

His father was evil.

James slept until dark. When he awoke, he was still on the soft grass of the grove, and knew what he would do. He decided to remember everything about this place during his service.

His military career began with a lie about his age. He was surrounded constantly by men older and stronger than him, and he had to become strong to compete. Drills went from impossible to easy, exercise went from atypical to routine, training situations went from complex to pliant. Soon, he was truly eighteen, and his physical strength was a much closer reflection of his mental power.

He did a tour. It was his first trip out of Nevada. His first kill was hard, knowing that the dead man would not be resurrected in heaven, but as war taught him more about human nature, he forsook morals in retaliation against his amoral surroundings.

His aversion to Christianity faded, emotion left behind. There had been no lie, only inaccuracy. He was no longer atheist from sorrow, but just a lack of perception of any gods. This was a sad thing, to know the world was harsh and lawless, but his mother had taught him postmortem to accept all of reality, not just the good.

James became a renowned soldier, but always enigmatic. This, due to distaste for any fellow soldiers. Eventually, after countless tours without reason, James gained a distaste for America. When no longer wished to be a patriot, he deserted and returned to his humble home in Nevada. He'd grown a small black beard, and he knew that nobody would recognize him if he stuck to the shadows, so he sat through one of his father's sermons. He was not impressed. The passion had left his father's voice, and the pews held maybe a third of their former occupants.

"For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but will have eternal life." Said his father in a tired voice. Under his breath, James said it too. Afterwards, James found that the preacher spoke that verse at the end of every sermon, as it had been his son's favorite. James perceived that the verse had a special meaning to his father. One about losing a son.

After only a few days, James missed the feeling of a gun in his hand, and applied to some agency whose flyers were ubiquitous around SIN. He shaved his beard and showed up to the interview with a fake last name - Christoff, in memory of his old religion - and showed no credentials but impressive strength and accuracy. He found that the Agency required no more than this. He went through a month of easy training that he quickly tired of. He was placed in what they called 'Squadron C' of 'North Complex', the place to be if you were a rookie of under one year's experience.

Impressive feats of violence bumped him months prematurely to Squadron B, where he was actually engaged with his assignments. He experienced a level of freedom that he hadn't experienced in... well... his entire life. Christian parents (or just parent) had allowed very little in his sixteen years of living with them, and the following six had somehow managed to be even more restrictive. The Agency required absolute discipline during assignments, but outside of this, it didn't care what you did or what happened to you.

Having intimate knowledge of freedom, James felt a spark of life reignite inside him. He could finally take what we wanted without fear of being reprimanded by his father or dishonorably discharged by the military. It felt as though he'd never truly lived his life before, and he was just now beginning.

He began falling asleep to a mind full of thoughts, and waking up with the grin of a good dream. He decided to anonymously donate large sums of his paycheck to his father's church. He jogged in the mornings, trained hand-to-hand at noon, sprayed bullets in the evening, and boxed at night. Best of all, his sense of humor returned.

His drill sergeant quickly realized that James was far too experienced for a rookie position. He was moved to Squadron A, where he met a whole host of new people. He'd never seen most of them, and it would be a blank slate. A chance to start over.

He decided to advance from the shadows, take leave of his emotionless, non-empathetic mask. The first people he met were a tightly knit, skilled couple of professionals who were grieving for their lost member.

They consisted of Kara and Harry. The woman was not welcoming to him (although he was quite attracted to her), but James quickly befriended Harry. Harry privately told James that he was pining for Kara, and James immediately decided that their couple name would be harakiri. Harry enjoyed that.

He'd been with the group for a few months, and both Kara and Harry had gotten distinct impressions of James. Then they got news of an attack on East Complex.

James's perception was sharp. Curiosity boundless, James knew books of information about the East Complex, Sheriff Jay, and the more highly guarded aspects of the Agency. He calculated that Sheriff Jay was being extorted in some way, but the methods of such extortion were difficult to grasp - it had been a long time since he'd been in Nevada, and new developments, such as teleportation and ethereal hostiles, had come as a surprise to James. Maybe he'd been too sheltered, but he'd never heard of such things as a child.

So James was skeptical that the attackers of the East Complex were any more threatening than the average, fragile human. He mocked Kara, suggesting that she believed in "teleporting ghouls and gooks and other monsters of the scary kind." But he'd learned to question his own beliefs. His mind was open to the supernatural.

So he kept up his carefree, slightly dopey demeanor on the way into the East Complex. But, inside, every second was a display of the utmost vigilance. Every table was noted, every room was catalogued. James had no margin for error.

The top floor was where things became interesting. After a game of pool and a joke about masturbation, the lights went out. Uh-oh. Perception required sight, and James was probably the first one to turn on his light. He saw a gate blocking the stairwell just before Matt called it out.

"There's a gate blocking the stairwell." Matt said. James could see even before Matt pushed on it that he wouldn't get it to budge. He predicted that the headstrong Kara would then attempt either to shoot or kick it down, that Harry and Alex would join in, and that Erik and Matt would be scared of the dark.

Thirty seconds proved him right on all counts. He smiled at himself, pool cue in hand. The world could be very, very predictable.

Except, of course, for the supernatural events that James had such little experience with. So when they descended to Floor Four to find a lone man taking a shower, James was put off. He joined Kara behind a locker, preparing to give cover fire should she need it.

She locked up for a minute. He could hear her breath. She seemed scared of the man beyond reason, despite the fact that he only had a gun. He decided not to touch or speak to her, as she was so tense that she might've fired in his direction.

The lights flickered out, and the man appeared one shower closer to the locker, as though he'd been there the entire time. That was unusual.

Kara finally gained the nerve to shoot three rounds at the man, forgoing any preemptive questions. It seemed rational enough - the man could hardly have been anything but a threat.

But it turned out that the dead man was Matt's friend, and Matt was very upset at Kara. A strange fury overtook James when Matt whispered that Kara was a bitch, and James used his years of emotionless, inveterate coldness to deal an agonizing blow to the man.

He whistled, stuck his finger in the corpse's bullet wounds, and commented on the strength of the group's guns. When Matt pushed James back, it only took two words to push him over the edge. James dodged Matt's blow, Kara intervened, once again receiving the brunt of Matt's anger. Then she calmed him. James took note of the tactic she used.

"You've really got a firm grip on their balls, don't you?" He asked her after. As his facade dictated, he was obligated to use coarse language to describe a true concept. Her level of control was truly impressive. And he didn't believe it to be for the good.

Later, Kara found a non-existent something on the floor. James had no trouble believing that it had existed before, then vanished, and he studied her eyes with a keen curiosity. Something in this place was trying to destroy her. Because she was the leader, he understood. Because she was the strongest, it would make her feel insane. James subtly questioned Alex, Erik, and even Kara herself to determine that she'd seen a trail of blood leading into the room, and knew that he would need to address this.

On their next sweep, he took her into a room, removed their masks, and made her comfortable on the bed. He voiced her thoughts from his mouth in an attempt to make her feel better. Unfortunately, she was smart enough to see through it, and she looked at him with a wondering face.

"Why are you trying to make me feel... I mean, I never thought... why are you doing this?" She asked.

He couldn't answer her, but if he could, he'd tell her that parts of the world she was seeing were not a delusion, but someone's lie. Instead, he told her that she needed to be strong, and that this was the time for her to rest.

He perceived that she was going to kiss him, and he stopped her before their lips touched. But he couldn't help feeling the energy. His passion was the same as hers. "A leader needs to be focused." He reminded her.

She got up when Harry knocked, moving as though she'd been repaired. Still, James knew his work wasn't done.

They descended to a fancy B1, where James faux begged to stay, and a freezing B2, where James acted as tired as all the others, and they lost Erik and Alex. Sweeping for them was unsuccessful, and James was quite certain that they were dead.

They could have left then. Probably, they could have escaped the complex unscathed, which was a luxury most other Squadron A members probably wouldn't have. But James was still bound by a strange desire to fight that had steadily risen in him since the age of sixteen, and he couldn't ignore the opportunity. He'd seen the door almost as soon as they'd entered B2, and he had to go through. He knew that Kara would take them.

"It's not the last floor." James told them. He opened the door with a blue key from a scientist's room, and allowed Kara to make them descend.

He got a little angrier at Matt when Matt once again called Kara a bitch.

Prison. No, more like a cage full of lab rats. The scientists likely made vile use of these men in their chemical testing. James kept an eye on Kara, making sure she was safe as she entered a cell and fought off a black-eyed prisoner. Of course, every cell had two prisoners, so he knew when Matt screamed that Matt had found the other one.

James took careful note of a couple exits that he may need as contingency. Among them was a grate leading into a sewer.

The hostiles started pouring in. An easily surmountable obstacle, had they been human, but there was an alien quality about them that made them resistant to multiple bullets. James assumed that this was due to the smoke, and was glad to be wearing an gas mask. In any case, knowing that they could not kill them all, James satisfied himself by killing a large swathe of them and ensuring that Kara had an easy path to the stairs. They fired until Harry came back, then they went upstairs.

Only, upstairs wasn't upstairs. James was sure that he was the only one to notice it, but the B2 they returned to was not the B2 they'd come from. He couldn't place the differences, but...

Oh. Well, the differences became more pronounced when they rounded the corned to see a dead Erik hanging from the ceiling.

A smoke addled Alex appeared behind James, slashing a finger from James's hand and breaking his gas mask against the wall. Harry ran away, Kara fell into Erik's pool of blood, and James shot Alex in the side of the head just before the devilish creature did terrible things to the pretty girl.

And then the dead man supported James's theory by implying that the two of them were 'not where they thought they were'. James shot him again, and walked Kara to what should have been B1, speaking calming words all the way.

But when Kara arrived at the door, she shook, and when James opened the door, his theory was confirmed. He was staring into the shower room of Floor Four, complete with a dead Harry and a once-again-standing Axel.

They moved back down to B3 in a hurry. James was no longer burdened with a full group of people, so he mowed through all hostiles until he found the sewer that he remembered. He blew it up and lowered them down, then walked with Kara until they found Matt, reconciled with him, and continued on until he found a nice truck loaded with heroin.

He hopped in and revved the engine, shouting out inspiration as a horde of scientists appeared around the corner.

"Hey!" Shouted Kara. "Someone could have heard that." And then she saw the hostiles as well.

"That someone's going to get run the fuck over." James replied. "Who wants shotgun?"


	8. The Savior, Part Two

**A/N: Apologies for missing the Friday deadline. There will be a a three week hiatus after this chapter in order to accumulate material. Expect the next on March 13th.**

Kara was reeling from the knowledge that she was still alive. She'd been to the edge of death twice in the past hour, and both times she'd walked away unharmed. Even stranger was James's sudden sincerity, the care he seemed to be showing for her. But it was difficult to consider these things and also deal with the approaching mob of scientists.

She clenched her rifle at the sound of gunfire, but it was just James, firing down at human-like creatures with one hand on the wheel and one foot on the accelerator. "Ahahahaha!" He laughed, projecting the hoot to a scientist-laden ground. The truck swerved suddenly, crushing two men beneath a wheel, and brown, rectangular bags spilled from the back. Another round of gunfire.

"Fire at will, men!" He shouted to them, a wicked smile on his face. James reveled in the carnage.

Matt took a few carefully placed shots, aiming for heads and necks, killing with two or three bullets each. Most scientists in the facility seemed to be down here and, all entrances having been closed, Kara imagined that this is where they were when the facility began to burn.

She shot the hand off one who'd grabbed the railing of the truck, but it pursued quickly on foot. It was actually gaining, moving at around twenty miles an hour. Matt put it down.

James soon passed the horde, to Kara's great relief. It was all that much more frightening, then, when James turned the truck around and went through them again, just to kill off the stragglers. Once they were all dead, Kara found herself low on ammunition. She hoped that they wouldn't meet any new hostiles on the way.

The drive lasted for a few minutes. After all, this was an Agency labyrinth, and it would have been planned with only the highest efficiency as a goal. However, just as they saw the steep, manmade incline that would take them out of the cave network, gunfire erupted on the front. "Get down!" James shouted. They all ducked, bullets blasting through the windshield glass and tire rubber.

James lay a gun on the accelerator, yelled to jump, and hit the ground with a roll. Kara and Matt followed. Their truck careened through a crowd of soldiers, followed closely by piercing Agency projectiles. Matt and Kara kneeled, carefully scoping each target, while James fired from a wide-legged stance.

The truck slipped, spun, tipped, and slid burning across bloody floor. Then the soldiers regrouped, some using the truck as a barricade, other's advancing quickly toward the three units. Kara saw James dart off to the side, followed him closely. He kept low to the ground, zigzagging to the cover of jutting wall. The approaching soldiers were accurate even when running, but still primarily a cover to distract from the sharpshooters bunkered behind the truck. James ignored the advancing soldiers, taking two bullets in the process, and lobbed his last grenade behind the truck.

The advancing soldiers scattered. They'd not been expecting their reserves to be killed, and whoever was instructing them took them seamlessly in all different directions, leaving them invulnerable to concentrated gunfire.

But North Complex weaponry was very good. James's rapid-fire shotgun threw piercing rounds in a wide cone from the barrel. With Kara and Matt to offer supporting fire, he mowed down half of them before he ran out of ammunition.

He unholstered his pistol and ran through their ranks, using their scattered strategy to prevent them from firing, for fear of hitting a friendly soldier. And they were incapable of retreating to safety, as James was in constant pursuit, and all walls and alcoves were within easy sight of either Matt or Kara.

They were forced to risk friendly fire to rid themselves of this new enemy. James tackled one and shot it through the head, stuck the pistol barrel through the impressive hole, and used the dead man as a shield through which to fire. Weak East Complex bullets had no hope of penetrating the sack of meat, and when James had finished his clip, he took the dead man's gun and kept firing.

But the more soldiers they killed, the harder it was to kill the remainder. One managed to get next to James while he was reloading. James gripped his barrel and swung the stock with full force at the soldier's head. The soldier caught it and tore it from James's hand, then pulled its pistol towards James's chest and James grabbed the soldiers wrist and forced it back so that the soldier fired up through its own chin. Blood briefly showered down on James.

Meanwhile, Kara was trembling, backing away from an unarmed aggressor. Unfortunately for her, it was Axel, twice revived and exponentially more sinister than before. He dealt a harsh backhand to her cheek, knocking her to the ground. Axel scooped her up and held her against the wall by the neck, battered cheek pressing against cold stone. Kara couldn't fight. There was no use in killing the immortal.

The sound of gunshots faded into the background: Overwhelmed by rushing blood and lack of air, the world's noise seemed distant. But Kara felt reverberate through her the immediate voice of the dead. _"You are a twist away from death, Kara Harding."_ Axel said, eyes aflame. She stayed limp against the jagged wall. The hold on her neck had not relaxed in the slightest, and the air brimming at her open lips was not free enough to enter her lungs. _"Your friends will die now. You may die now, or you may leave death for the stupid, to whom it belongs. Kill James for me."_

_But, _Kara reasoned, _James is not stupid. If death doesn't come for me, it will run from him._

She was too weak even to shake her head, so she said nothing. Accepting her response, Axel squeezed.

When the blackness faded, Kara lay staring into the eyes of Axel, a dead man. Dead, as in still and not breathing and dead. Shot in the head. The kind of dead she was comfortable with.

At least until she woke up next to it. She backed away quickly into the wall, then stood to see James pulling bullets out of himself. "Morning, sunshine." He said to her. She looked around.

"Where's Matt?" Kara asked.

James pointed to a still body, and her heart lurched to think he was dead. "He took a nap about the same time you did. You two are lucky I'm such an efficient grim reaper."

She let out a sigh of relief. Kara was tired of her friends dying. She hadn't been over her former teammate when James arrived, she was devastated from Harry's death, and losing another one seemed too much to bear. If they died, she might as well.

"Can I ask you something, Kara?" James said. She was past the point of responding. Right now, she could only be described as inert. James asked anyways. "What are you most afraid of?"

Kara couldn't think of an answer right away. Before she came here, she'd have had the same trouble because nothing scared her, but now she couldn't decide what she'd seen that was the most fearful. She chose an answer that she thought encompassed most of her experience here. "Weakness." She said.

James agreed. "A good fear. But not one you need to experience. You're the strongest fighter I know, what could make you feel weak?"

"The strongest fighter you know?" Kara repeated dully. "Strong fighting aims to win, and a won fight ends in death. If your opponent can't die, strong fighting is meaningless."

"Which opponent doesn't die?" James asked.

Kara pointed down at the man that had choked her earlier, the one that only James had had the power to save her from. He lay dormant now, but Kara knew that a bullet didn't mean death for the thing Axel had become. He'd taken three of them in the shower, what was another one?

James peered over. "Looks dead enough to me." He said. Truly, it was just an ordinary corpse. Another face no one knew, another puddle no one cared about. James wondered what was so special about the man.

"Can't you see it? Look at it's face. It's hair, look at that." She insisted, getting agitated now.

"I can see it fine." James said. What was going on?

"Dammit!" Kara shouted. "It's Axel, James, it's dead Axel! He can follow us wherever we go! He could rise from the dead this second and twist my neck!"

It wasn't Axel. James remembered Axel in great detail, especially because the man had incited so much fear in Kara. Now James understood. Now he'd found her fear.

"Kara, do you remember the trail of blood that you found in the hallway?" James asked her. Kara was surprised... she hardly remembered telling him anything about what she'd seen.

"Yes." She said.

"And the time in Floor Four when you saw Axel get a shower closer to you?"

She was taken aback. She had certainly told him nothing of that. But she was too tired to question him, so she nodded and let him speak.

"The blood was an illusion. Or, if it was real, it was erased the second time you went to look at it. When Axel got closer to us, that was an illusion too. And the man you're seeing, dead at your feet? That isn't Axel. Not in the slightest." He said.

Kara wondered at James's words. She didn't know how he knew all this. She couldn't understand the implications, so she asked someone who certainly did. "What does it mean?" She inquired.

"It means that you don't need to fear being weak, Kara. You're beyond strong. Stronger than anyone who entered this complex, and stronger than anyone who's left. Whatever we're fighting against is the same as any player in this game - it doesn't like strong opponents. These illusions are directed at you because you're the best, Kara, and they're an attempt to weaken your resolve. They did, when you almost died a few minutes ago. You had a gun. That man didn't. If you hadn't seen Axel, you would have been conscious, shooting, helping me kill these things. So, Kara, you don't need to fear these illusions. If anything, you should only fear that they're working."

Kara digested this. Like most of what James said, it made sense... except for the part about her being strong. She didn't feel strong right now.

"I know you don't feel strong right now," James said, "but that's exactly the goal of our enemy. To make you feel weak."

James was too smart. There was one thing that he hadn't considered, though. "Well, you may be right." Kara said. She tried to steady her voice, failed. "But if anything can be an illusion, how do I differ from reality? Even your speech right there. It seemed real to me, but so does the face of Axel."

James pondered. And he pondered some more. After a minute, he'd been pondering so long that Kara had to ask him what he was pondering so much.

"I'm working on it. Give me a moment." He said.

James closed his eyes. It was dimly lit in the cave, and quiet, too. The only sounds came from distant echoes, water dripping from stalactites. With his eyes closed like this, he could almost deprive himself of his senses.

He travelled back to Floor Four. He remembered it in all the detail that he could, and he watched carefully as the lights shut off, listened for any sound, pictured every vivid detail. He watched Axel come closer as the light returned. He focused on the feeling. He focused on his mind.

He felt something rustle. It was a strong presence, unseen but unmissable. It fled easily from sight, but James's sight went beyond the eyes. He perceived it reaching in, only altering a small detail of vision, a detail small enough that it wouldn't be noticed. Just the lightest change, the tiniest addition, and its presence would usually not be noted. But James was not usual.

James seized the feeling of the alteration, inspecting it in his mind. It stood sorely out now, turning his stomach when he looked upon it. "Look at the body." James said quietly. "But don't use your thoughts. No memory. Only use your eyes."

Kara did, and there was a disturbing feeling in the pit of her stomach when she saw that she didn't recognize the face she viewed. It hadn't changed, she'd just ceased to see Axel, and Axel had disappeared. And a terrible presence skimmed the folds of her mind, running over the cranium. "No." She whispered, and it fled away.

"I felt it." She told James. "I found the maker of the illusions."

"Do you think you could look for him, Kara? Could you see him if he were to show you something fake?" James asked. She nodded. The feeling was too distinct to miss. If every illusion would be accompanied by this sensation, she'd never believe an illusion again.

Matt moaned himself awake. Kara did a quick check to determine whether he was truly getting up, and felt no influence from illusion. It was working.

"Damn." Matt yawned. "What the hell happened here?" Matt referred to the bodies strewn across the floor.

"I didn't kill all of them." James said. "I could have, but they all ran away before I got the chance."

"Well, in any case, we're almost out of here." Matt said. "Let's just follow that ramp for a while. That's totally the truck's old way out, right James?"

James nodded. "And we'll be home in time for supper." He murmured.

A spark of hope ignited in Kara's chest. She hadn't considered the possibility of this ending. She'd assumed that she might die in here, effort expent against delusions no more than a last stand, an attempt to die with sanity intact. But it turned that she may be minutes from liberation.

Or not. The ramp ended prematurely, covered in impassable rubble. Two hours were spent tearing at rocks to no avail. Matt kept at it until his hands were bloody, terrified at the prospect of not getting out, until James had to pull him away. Matt rested against the pile. Though it could hardly be called resting - Matt's hands shook and his eyes stayed large.

The spark extinguished.

They returned to the smoldering vehicle. Heroine fumes rose from bubbling plastic, so Kara kept a careful radius. Her stomach rumbled. She wondered if there was any food in the truck.

"What do we do now?" Matt looked to James for the answer.

James was pensive. He did not think aloud - he never did - but it was clear that he was working through their escape. "We head northwest." He said, with no elaboration.

"Why?" Matt asked.

"To get out." James.

"And northwest, that's the way out for what reason?" Matt demanded.

James didn't answer, only headed down a concrete tunnel and listened to two pairs of footsteps behind him. But Kara had little faith that this would be the way out. _The only way out is down._

As the hours stretched on, Kara's hunger grew. She tried to control it, but matter was beating out mind. Her head was not getting the right amount of nutrition, it was hungry, she required some sustenance, she was starving, she was parched. And the dark shadows of the tunnel enveloped her thin ray of flashlight, ready to constrict at any moment, suffocate it from existence.

She wanted to say something, if only to break the monotonous drone of feet on concrete. James was too focused to speak, but she didn't know just what he was focusing on. Matt walked as quietly as he could, as though the slightest sound would bring death bounding from the shadows. And Kara felt that death had already come for her tongue. But there was a moment of reprieve. Her ears perked when she heard a thin whisper from the tunnel's edge. When casting her light over it revealed nothing, she carried on, but replayed the sound in her mind, trying to remember it. After all, there had to be some sound other than footsteps.

The whisper came again, this time from the opposite wall. Kara remembered the first one with great detail, and the same cadence and tone had returned. She swept her light over it again, and again found nothing.

James stopped. Focused on something on the ground. He peered down, eyes searching through a thin mist of smoke. Matt stopped before him and searched the ground. Matt's eyes came up to lock with Kara's, and he shook his head. There was nothing there.

But James was still looking, intent, face contorted in confusion. Matt dared not whisper his name, but brought a flashlight to his face. He found James's eyes to be dilated and jittery.

James shook out of it, reaching to push away the flashlight. There had been nothing there. He went on.

Kara heard the whisper again, and she knew that she was being spoken to. She didn't make any words, but managed to mouth a reply to the whisper. _Say it louder._ Went her lips.

And the whisper responded.

"_The only..."_

She heard it. There it was, the whisper again, and she heard the beginning. But the rest had faded into an incomprehensible hiss.

"_...only way..."_

James stopped again, then backed away, eyes vibrating, fixated on the ground before him. His teeth chattered, and he clutched at his wounds.

"_...way out..."_

Kara raised her flashlight to James's patch of ground, but there was nothing there, just the whisper, and the whisper was listening, getting louder...

"_...only way..."_

And louder, and higher, as though it were coming from close, from just nearby, and her beam raised, parting through the fog, flickered as

"_KARA"_

it found darkness, a form jutting from the ground, seen only for blocking the light's path, hard and cold and impossible to illuminate

"_...way is..."_

and the beam kept upward, flickered, a form, a form came, perfect, perfectly black

"_ASHES"_

and Axel went through her mind and the darkness of the tunnel became the darkness of the shower because there was no fate as dark as that which Kara had seen stock still then dead then alive then dead again

"_...is down."_

Her flashlight fizzled out.

It was pulled down and out of existence with a concrete clang and a shatter of glass.

But before it hit the ground, Kara recalled how Axel's face had disappeared from an earlier aggressor as soon as she knew it to be an illusion. And she noticed the strange feeling of an intruder skirting along her mind, feeding her thoughts that were not her own. The flashlight broke against the concrete and pulled her back to reality. She pulled James's flashlight from his hand and held it like a torch towards her imaginary foe, and found nothing had stood there but a well played facade.

Her light showed James staring blankly at the mist before him, shaking, and Matt kneeling, covering his eyes with both hands.

"Mom." James muttered to the mist. "You're so frail."

Kara grabbed his chin and pulled it in her direction. James's eyes were wide, boyish, and naive. "James," Kara said, tears welling and glistening, "you're our only hope. Please, you can't be seeing things too, please..."

James touched her hand, then looked back at the mist. "3:16." He consoled. "So you can't be dead."

"James." Kara repeated.

"I know." James said, looking away, an edge entering his voice. "I'm not seeing... there's no..."

He took a moment to compose himself. "We continue." James said without a tone. But Matt would not get up, and they had to carry him bodily to continue.

But before they got far, they heard another noise in the distance. Kara's inner monologue attained a long forgotten ember of ire, gaining so much ego as to almost scorn a second attempt to scare her. But the growl continued, and footsteps approached at an inconsistent pace. The feeling of alteration was fresh in her mind, and this was surely another trick.

But then the snarling man came into sight and leaped on Kara, knocking her to the ground. He pinned her wrists so hard that they bruised, and was prepared the moment James came to help. The man swung a fist that jerked James's jaw to the right, then grabbed a packet of clean filters from James's belt.

James whipped the man with his pistol, but a burst of black fire appeared from the man's hands, blowing James back and dimming the two flashlights. Kara fired haphazardly at the man's head, but her gun was soon grabbed and turned on her.

As she struggled to keep the barrel away from her face, a knife skidded across the ground to stop at her foot. There was no way she could reach it, though, in her current state. She inched a foot towards it, but found her head slammed against the wall, blood tainting blond hair.

The man's attention was diverted by James tackling from behind. He used all his weight to force the man to the ground. Just before the man took Kara's gun and shot James, Kara picked up the knife and put it through the man's eye.

A burst of black fire marked the snarling man's death and pushed back James and Kara. The filters ignited and burned.

To ashes.

"Dammit." Said James from the ground. His voice was clipped and terse. "Dammit, we need those filters. How many do you have on you?" He asked Kara. She said three. He asked the same of Matt, and Matt didn't respond. So he said it louder. "Hey, Matt!" James called, looking Matt in the face. Matt was dull-eyed and deadpan. No response. So James rifled through Matt's military jacket until he found a few filters, and he passed them all to Kara. "You can have them as soon as you get up, Matt." He said, venom plain in his voice. Something had suddenly shifted in James.

"It doesn't matter." Kara whispered. They weren't going to get out anyways. After all, loss was relentless in its taking. But James didn't listen.

"Alright then." He said, and kept down the tunnel.

"Wait." Said Kara. He didn't stop. "Wait." She said again. But the darkness was too thick to speak through. It had overwhelmed her nerve and projection, taken James's empathy and perception. She was forced to be loud. "Wait, James!" She said. He stopped this time. "We need to take Matt."

"If Matt wants to die, he can die." James.

"Please." Kara pleaded tonelessly. "James."

"Why?" James asked, turning quickly. "What use is a comatose idiot?"

Kara looked away. James had turned on her a fire he'd only ever reserved for his enemies. But she supposed that the darkness had torn down his filters. "For me." She said, giving a last effort.

A conflict raged in James's mind. But Kara won over his anger. She was his consolation, his last pacifier. He needed to keep her. Kara's life was a fragile barrack, but it shielded him from the slings and arrows of his past.

He hoisted Matt onto a shoulder, turned off one flashlight to preserve power, and carried on through the hungry cold. She trailed closely behind him, watching uneven footsteps and listening to erratic pacing.

"_Run, run." _Came a goading whisper. She knew it was fake, but it wouldn't go away.

A day passed. The dark of the caverns may as well have been the heat of the sun, the concrete or stone floors dry sand, for that alone could describe the limitless mirages brought on by hunger, thirst, confusion, and trickery. It became difficult to discern even simple speech from auditory lies. Once she thought she heard James muttering some ancient verse, again and again, but there'd been so much mental interference that she couldn't tell if it was real.

They'd moved ceaselessly northwest, but never reached their mysterious destination. Many strange locations passed them by without incident, but many revoked their clearance in the form of burning black eyes. James had become far less clinical in killing those that attacked him: Teeth were more often employed than not, and he had no fear of gouging eyes or tearing throats. He became drenched in blood and made little effort to clear it off. It became difficult for Kara to discern him from the enemy.

Fatigue burned at her muscles, but sleep wouldn't come. It was impossible to tell the night from the day. That's why sleep was so elusive, but she wouldn't have slept if she could. She was certain that no dreams would wait for her but night terrors. Or, day terrors. Whatever.

One day, after countless hours of dead ends and wrong turns, the group was assailed by fiery barrels. Matt took several bullets to the lungs, but he wouldn't have lived in any case. He hadn't asked for his filters, so James hadn't given them.

James's knife jerked as the serrated edge went through a living soldier's neck. The muscle, then especially the bone was quite tough, and the sawing came as a lurching movement. The soldier didn't scream, though, because the black eyed things didn't do that.

Then James did something worse, but Kara tried not to pay attention. There was no hope of Matt's recovery, and Kara assumed that James didn't desire for him to recover. She looked away while James did what he did. She covered her ears when the noises started.

When James called her over, she had trouble standing. Her legs were wobbly, thin. She hadn't eaten in what seemed like days, and her face was showing signs of emaciation. Matt was gone from his lying position, nowhere to be seen. In his place was a small fire with a large amount of meat roasting on a spit.

_Tantalizing,_ she thought of the scent, but she then recalled the story behind the word. Tantalus had been cursed for his crime. It hadn't just been one against humanity, against his son, but one against the gods. Not that she believed in them any more. Still, her hunger drove her nearer the fire, to a smell so delicious that she would have salivated were not she so parched. A dry tongue felt strange over chapped lips.

"Here." James said, offering her some meat. Her conscience worried away at the issue, but it didn't stop her starving body from biting the flesh, bone of tooth meeting bone of arm, finger catching a droplet of hot juice to bring back to her lips. James watched her as she ate. "This, too." He said, handing her his water bottle. She drank it quickly, ignoring how it was so much thicker than water.

"Eat slower." James murmured. She'd been ravaging the meal, even though she knew better. It was hard to abide by the rule, but she didn't want this food wasted by nausea. She slowed.

When she was full, she lay on the ground, preparing another vain attempt to rest. James came to her before she could close her eyes, the fire behind him giving a warm glow, until she felt he was shrouded in angelic wings. Was that another illusion? She couldn't tell anymore.

He gently took out her filter and replaced it with a fresher one. James didn't want her to fall asleep with a used filter, or she'd wake up a used thing. Used by an entity she never wanted to meet. As James cared for her, she rested up against his body, his and the fire's warmth being the first she'd felt in long days. She wondered why James would even give such a useless asset such a valuable resource as a filter. "I'm no better than Matt." She whispered to him as they closed their eyes against the wall. "You're the only one who has a chance of living here. Take the filter for yourself."

"Oh, Kara." He soothed, running a hand gently up and down her arm. "The King will answer and say to them, 'Truly, to the extent that you did it to these brothers of mine, even the least of them, you did it to me.' There is only giving, Kara."

His voice was soft and kind, filled with a compassion that made her forget James's more heinous deeds. There were only the words, little as they made sense, and how they sounded to her wounded ear. And she would never sleep with a stomach full of that fire's meat, but she would rest against James now, with closed lids, until they both faded away from this place.

And as she waited for her eternal sleep to come, an idle part of her wondered what had been burned to make the fire.

Next morning, she was the first to hear the noise of approaching men. "James." She spoke, bringing him instantly awake. The fire had died down, leaving little more than hot embers, and deserting them both in the cold.

James leaped silently up, stalking towards the source of the sound, pulling a log from the fire on the way.

Oh, not a log. More body parts. A leg.

Finding that last night's food had given her some energy, Kara moved just as stealthily to help him. She found that her old habits had unconsciously returned, the stone below giving no indication that it was being stepped on.

James was on them just as the group of three black-eyed soldiers appeared, swinging the ember-covered leg at one of them, sparks scattered, soldier stumbled, flames raced. But James didn't stop, immediately plunging his knife into the one behind him, kicking out the knee of the other with such power that the joint buckled behind.

The one with James's knife in its chest drew an Agency machete from its belt. James swiftly broke its wrist and took the machete, swinging it at the burning soldier, fire now spread across its entire body, poisonous smoke rising. The soldier caught the machete, unhurt even though the edge bit into its skin. The dark blood that dripped out burned like lighter fluid on the blade's surface. James held the soldiers gripping arm to slice off four fingers, and when grabbed from behind, tore the already-lodged knife from chest to forehead. Then he brought the blade down on the other limping soldier, leaving a burning gash on its chest. That one advanced, so he rolled behind it, slashed its throat, and poured the ensuing stream of blood on the other. The blood ignited, and James's enemies were left in a pool of flame.

Kara had not once stepped in to help. "We will have been heard. Get the food." James said.

They kept on. Kara marveled at James's fighting ability. It did not seem that he had gained any new skills, only that he had let loose anything that had formerly been his restraint. Kara thought of the way the soldiers had burned. Flammable blood, producing the same black smoke that poisoned the entire complex. Of course, their meat had been cooked over that fuel. Ergo, they'd eaten meat infused with the poison smoke.

"James." Kara said.

"Kara." James replied.

"You cooked the meat using the soldiers' bodies, right?" She asked.

The answer was obvious, and he didn't respond.

"Well, the soldiers are full of the poison that we're wearing gas masks against." Not that it mattered much to her. She felt near death, only hoping that James could somehow slaughter his way out of this deathtrap.

_Out? _Asked her mind. _The only way out is down._

But James didn't feel the same way. He stopped dead, eyes wide. "What?" He asked.

She stopped too, and turned. His mind was racing.

"That's..." He began, breathless. "I didn't think of that."

"I only just did." Said Kara.

"But. But, that is what I always think of. That's just perception. Why didn't I think of that? That's _exactly _the kind of thing I think of." James was thinking aloud, something Kara had seldom seen him do. His face revealed a clear anxiety, and he looked quickly around himself, searching for some unseen invader. He swatted the air.

"That's exactly the thing." He muttered, his face showing what Kara had felt when she saw Axel: Confusion, worry, a loss of an integral part of self.

"I wonder what the meat will do." He wondered aloud. Kara feared the answer.

James spent that night apparently reconciling his blindness with his need to perceive. To compensate for his earlier concession, he sought out a black-eyed soldier and drained the blood from its body. James spent that night (or dawn, noon, afternoon, dusk - it was impossible to tell) altering cartridges of a grenade launcher to contain blood filled packets. The following morning, among their incredible Agency technology was a fiery grenade launcher that was inescapably perilous to their foes, whose ammunition was located in their victims' chests.

James offered her the modified device, but she denied it, wary of anything with that evil blood in it. She was content to let James burn their enemies to death.

"How many bodies would it take to open that ceiling?" James mused. The result was far too high, an amount of explosives only a group of Agency units could haul in, so they headed to their northwest destination.

A new wave of strange effects washed over Kara, this one not induced by insomnia or hunger. Her skin became less sensitive. The nails of a soldier once raked across her arm hard enough to draw blood, and it was only when she saw her own blood dripping to the floor that she registered more than a stinging sensation.

She also cared less about things. Much as she'd been anticipating the answer, Kara could barely hold interest when James told her his theory of interconnecting complex tunnels. It made sense, a good explanation for this labyrinthian passageway, but all she still had the passion to be interested in was fighting off the lies and whispers of her manipulator. They had grown exponentially more invasive, some minor illusion or other within her view no matter which way she turned.

She couldn't tell, but it seemed that some of her apathy, some of her delusions, and some of her numbness had come from a recent meal. She tried to explain this to James, but he couldn't see her meaning. He demanded that they hunt for drink. So Kara and James stalked their victims, knowing that the soldiers were not trying to hide themselves. They found a large group: Six. James still had his flame launcher, but set it silently down. He didn't want to burn the blood, for he needed it.

The black-eyed soldier prey patrolled their area, waiting for someone to kill. But the black fire that had burned away their minds had taken also their perception, and the prey was not intelligent enough to notice the hazards of its environment. This one was a large cavern, complete with stalactites and stalagmites, but also fitted with manmade (Agency-made) structures. Any weapons or resources had been burned by the prey, but terraforming had been left intact. So Kara and James quietly ascended the heights of the chamber, where they looked down on their enemies from a concrete alcove.

James handed Kara one pistol. It was the last of the two firearms they possessed, and James had the other. James was more reckless than ever before. Without warning Kara or telling her any plan, he dropped a combat knife point-first on the head of one of their six prey, distanced from the primary group so as not to alarm them. The distance of the drop killed the victim instantly, spine fracturing and head pushing closer to shoulders. 1/6. At the same time, James himself landed feet-first on a victim in the middle of the group, crushing it easily. 2/6. His machete came quickly, removing the head of one, 3/6, then his pistol let an entire clip into another, 4/6. Kara was in wonder of his speed, killing four demi-immortals in seconds, but she had time neither to watch nor to offer supporting fire. A seventh soldier came from behind her and dealt a devastating punch to her throat, laying her on the concrete ground. She emptied her clip on him, but apparently not with the precision of James, for the soldier kept coming. It took her helmet, complete with filters attached, and threw it to the ground below. She held her breath against the poison air.

_HELP! _She shouted in her mind. She needed a filter, James's filter. She needed to kill this thing and get down and kill James's prey and take a filter all without a single breath. The prey grabbed her foot to keep her from backing away. It held her foot above his shoulder, so she was supported on the ground by only her elbows and head. It drew a knife, and it looked like a knife that Axel might wield.

No, no, she couldn't think that way, this wasn't Axel, it was a trick, she couldn't succumb to it.

"_It is Axel, Kara. Don't you want to kill him? Let me help you. Let me inside, and you'll kill him so he'll never come back."_

No, the whisper was fake, and Axel's face wasn't really before her. She tried to look past it into reality, but this time she couldn't. The knife grazed along her stomach, not cutting, but waiting for a higher command.

"_You can kill him, Kara, don't you believe it? Just breathe, and you can kill him."_

No, she wouldn't breathe. She wouldn't let it in. She refused to accept this...

Then the blade pierced skin, and she involuntarily gasped.

Breathing poison into her lungs.

And in the heat of her panic, black fire erupted from her hands, knocking the soldier to the ground. She stood quickly, and the soldier stood slowly, and when it stood, she punched it off the ledge, black fire following her fist.

James was fighting one remaining victim, standing by a most recent corpse that was speared on a stalagmite and missing its automatic rifle. 5/7. James looked up to the alcove at the sound of black fire, and shot Kara's victim as it fell. 6/7. In doing so, James sustained a volley of bullets from the victim just behind him. They exited his stomach and sent him tumbling to the ground.

_JAMES!_ Kara screamed at him through her mind. He couldn't have heard, of course, but James seemed to have registered the shout, for he looked her directly in the eye as he fell.

She didn't know just what happened, only that some other force was leaving hold of her body as she knelt beside a bleeding James and a dead 7/7. She took one of James's filters and sucked clean air through it. Immediately, the force's hold further diminished.

But it didn't leave.

"James, James, you need to wake up, James, come on." She said. There were countless bullet holes in his belly, but they'd all gone clean through, so she didn't need to take out the bullets. She tore a shirt off of one of their prey, and used it to bind James's stomach. The blood seeped through, dripping to the ground, mixing with the strange, lustrous, silvery-red blood of the soldiers. My, the blood was odd. Luminous. Entrancing.

As she stared into the pool, she saw her own reflection. She met her own gaze, and found her eyes to be black.

_No,_ she thought, closing them. It was just an illusion again, probably. She wrapped another shirt around James's wounds.

"Kara." He said, working to keep the croak out of his voice. After some wandering, his pupils aimed towards hers. "I heard you, Kara."

She didn't know what he was talking about.

"You called for me. You told me to help. Then you said my name. You called for me. How'd you do that, Kara?" James.

"I don't know." She murmured. She kept wrapping the holes.

"_I know." _Said the whisper.

_Don't listen._ She thought, trying to push out the invading thoughts.

"_Just take off your filter. Then you can call for anyone. Come, it would be so easy to drop it, to let me in."_ Said the whisper.

"No." She said aloud.

"_Let me in. I saved you from the soldier when you breathed me. Do it again."_

"_You can get out. Just give me control."_

"_LET ME IN."_

Even talk from James was no distraction from the whisper, for James muttered odd nonsense aloud. "Sarai, my mistress... go back to your mistress... submit." A tear rolled down Kara's cheek.

"_LET ME IN."_

"Submit, therefore, to God... the devil... the devil... will flee." James.

He reached up and touched Kara's face, crooning, loving, saying that he knew that his mother was alive. "I never lost faith." He promised with the clouded eyes of a blind man. "I was only scared, and hurt. I never stopped believing."

"_LET ME IN."_

So she hit her head against the floor. It jarred her, but she could hardly feel the pain. She hit again, so blood dripped down her forehead. And again, and she finally fell asleep, for the first time in days.

Bad dreams.

And when she awoke, the lights were burnt out. James had not ceased his whispering, but he did it quietly now, cradling his knees to his chest. Silvery blood was dried on his face. He'd been drinking the blood, for he was as thirsty as Kara. She looked, and saw that all of their filters were had been rendered useless, fallen into the poisonous blood and soaked in it.

She stood, swayed, walked off to a corner. There was a small alcove there, and she sat in it, back to the wall, eyes closed, head rested up against the concrete. Another tear fell, and she hoped it would be the last one she ever shed. She could make sure of it.

Clipped to her belt was a holster. Inside the holster was a small, silver gun. In the gun's chamber was one bullet.

She turned off the safety and deftly pulled back the hammer. It was the only thing she was good at. And she'd finally have the perfect shot that every marksman dreamed of attaining.

"_You'd better not. Take that bullet and go with it to North Complex. There are plenty of worthy targets there."_ Hissed evil.

No. There was only one target worthy of her bullet. One, last target. She held the pistol to her chin, steel still hot from its last use. The warmth was nice. It was the warmth of freedom.

"_Not yet, Kara."_

Trigger finger pressed down. Goodbye to the Agency, goodbye to her family, goodbye to James. Hello to Harry. Hello to Matt.

_The only way out._

But before the trigger fell, her radio buzzed to life, the first time it had done so since she'd entered this dead place. This would not distract her from her target. But of its own accord, her mind reached out to it, grasping for It was the same communication she'd felt with James. Only now the receiver was much farther away.

Someone was on the other end. She couldn't hear or see them, but she could feel them somehow. She tested the connection, thinking through the radio waves.

"Who is this?" She thought to them. But as she asked, she knew that it was Sheriff Jay, primary benefactor of the Agency. She could feel the room, that the radio was off, that the Sheriff could hear static, that she was too quiet, but that he was listening closely for her words.

She had an idea. The Sheriff could help her. There was no possibility of her and James making it all the way to North Complex, but James had said the roof could be blown with sufficient explosives.

Then she thought that Sheriff Jay could send medicine as well. Maybe they could use whatever was in the filters to cure James, to cure her.

The Sheriff was still listening for her voice, so she sent it loudly. She winced as a burst of noise came at the Sheriff, but was relieved to see that he didn't stop listening. She started softly again, slowly rising until she reached the right volume, repeating the same message again and again:

"SOS, Sheriff Jay, this is the East Complex, please respond. I repeat, this is the East Complex, we are in distress, please respond."

Finally, he replied. Her gun fell unfired to the ground to be replaced by the radio held close to her face, and her one tear of sadness was replaced by many tears of joy. She might escape now. In her excitement, she forgot to manage the volume. It spiked, but she returned it back to normal.

She attempted to regain the concise prose of a soldier as she told him quickly of her situation. He pried, and eventually asked how she could communicate from the radio-deadened complex. She, in her soldier-like honesty, was forced to tell him the uncomfortable truth. The pace of her breathing increased as she recounted her disgusting encounter with blood and meat. But he reacted not with surprise, more as though her defect was a power, and one to take advantage of.

He directed her to a channel to file a report, and she gained a deeper control of her ability. But it wasn't an ability, she told herself. It was a curse wrought by a poisonous whisper.

His inquisition continued, but a footstep drew her attention away. James had already heard it, and disregarding his debilitating injury, was standing astute, hands clenched. _No, no, James, you can't fight it._

James lumbered towards the sound.

Gunfire erupted at James, and she dropped the radio, inconsiderate of the static that burst forth in the far distance.

"James!" She shouted. "Come on, please, we can't fight them! James, come!"

He took a couple bullets to the arm. Kara knew James didn't feel them, though, because he'd consumed far more poison than her. His face was set in a hateful gaze as he approached them.

"Fffffuck that." He said. "Fffffuck their guns. I'll kill... I'll kill 'em with my _goddamn hands."_

And he did, cracking their bones and laughing.

The Sheriff confirmed the details of her rescue plan without showing any semblance of worry about the violence that was close occurring. She sobbed for him to bring medicine as she watched the scene of the battle. James bashed the head of one against the chest of the other, then kicked in any ribs that might not have been fractured, then stomped the ribs to shards when it was on the ground.

Then she ran out to catch him as he fainted from exhaustion.

She listened to the radio all night, just to block out the sound of James's biblical chanting. She'd missed having an inkling of what time it was, so she took advantage of the station's monotonous broadcast. There was no more whispering. The reprieve seemed almost like a reward.

The next morning, her rescuers entered the facility. She guided them in, taking them down the least treacherous paths she could, but it didn't really matter. Every path was treacherous. At the time that they arrived at B2, Kara saw an enemy, ran through water, evaded its bullets, and killed it with black fire before it could kill her. She tried to hide her panting, but it didn't work.

As her rescuers walked through B2, B3, and finally the sewers below, their observations reminded Kara of her own perilous journey. They made her relive every moment, every battle, every teammate's death - her teammates were very similar to her rescuers, and her rescuers died aplenty in B3. She decided that if she made it out of here alive, she'd quit the Agency and never fight again.

But then she considered something that she hadn't before. It was the smoke of the whisper's soldiers that had given her the power to communicate this way, and the whisper who had told her to call for help. Her heart sank. Nothing she said mattered anymore. The whisper had gotten just what it wanted from her, and her rescuers were not rescuers anymore; they had all become the distressed. Of course, she couldn't send them back. She'd learned that when she'd come down for the first time, that nobody could go back anymore.

Kara listened, crestfallen, as more and more of them died, and as their weapons decreased to nothing. Though there were no soldiers in the room... her rescuers were close, very close now, and maybe they would blow through the ceiling before anything happened. Pull the unconscious James from the room, escape forever. Kara and James could spend the rest of their lives happy, maybe together.

Not so. Kara saw her rescuers enter, and suddenly the stone cavern was swarmed with soldiers. They were each equipped with a gun, but their numbers were so great that none of them were drawn. Kara saw the fire die in the eyes of the leader of her rescuers, and heard her speak through the radio.

"Officer Eila reporting to base." Said the policewoman. "We are out of ammunition. There are too many of them to fight. This... this will be my last report."

Kara was stabbed from behind. Twice. And bitten. And stabbed. And carved. She fell to the ground headfirst, hardly feeling the soldiers who'd set upon her body. She watched the carnage, as black fire burned and red blades sliced everything. She idly searched the throng for her love, James, and saw him swaying in the battleground, muttering, somehow dodging the violence around him. He was illuminated by that same soft, warm glow he'd had back at the fire. She saw angel wings around him, and a halo atop his head.

His image blurred and faded, and she let herself burn out like a flashlight, muffled screams no longer touching her mind. She felt her soul being pulled down somewhere deep, warm, far away, and knew at last the meaning of those happy words.

_The only way out is down._

While Kara died, James felt the strength of God healing his wounds.

"_Do not kill these soldiers, for they know not what they do." _God whispered to James. But James didn't hear, because he perceived only what he wanted to. And he wanted to watch in reverence as the room around him burnt a fiery orange.

"I am God's tool." He said to the room, eyes closed. Through his devotion, he released himself from the bonds of the Earth, ascending a few feet into the air. His arms raised at either side. "I will purge this evil, for humanity." And he was flying through the tunnel, back the way they'd come, heading for the surface. And if B1 wouldn't let him enter, he'd tear B1 from the Earth.

"I will be The Savior."


	9. Higher Places

It began with a flood of bright gold. A thick, flowing river, fluctuating as mercury, stretching from infinity to infinity. But though the river glowed, it had nothing to glow upon.

The Higher white light brought billions of orbs splashing forth from the river, each one a basic piece of matter, each one a color intended to reflect the river's light. Some sailed lazily through space, while others sped off into the inscrutable distance. There were orbs in a state of stasis, and orbs that moved with great volatility, ricocheting off of empty air, but any orbs were liable to switch from one state to the other. Some orbs blinked out of existence, only to later decide that they would reappear, and some orbs would never think of jumping away from the void. Some orbs were gone and present at the same time, disregarding some nonexistent principle of mutual exclusion.

All told, their movement was arbitrary. It followed no laws, was governed by no reason. White light spat from the Higher Place to touch all of the orbs, and immediately their movements adopted a consistent location and velocity. The dark void had turned to gold-lit diversion of ceaselessly moving colors. The spectacle was grand.

But, there were none to view it. Higher white lights descended to forge more, to build an infinite catalogue of organisms and objects from the golden lifeblood of the lower place.

The lower place was jumbled and confused. The rules instilled in movement held true, but now the movement was incessant instead of ceaseless. Golden moments flowed by before Higher activity resumed, sweeping the excess mess to another lower place, and another, and another, and infinitely more. Now the lower places all were organized again. Some places were thoroughly consistent, dark, thick, and rich, while other places were whimsical and varied. Some places had been stripped of movement rules, and some places had had more rules put in place.

The only thing constant among all the places was the infinite river, stretching from infinity to infinity.

The organization dissipated when objects flowed from one place to the next through that same river. An ensuing Higher anger accidentally overflowed into the consistent, dark, thick, and rich world to make it malicious as well. A Higher ray of light shone to kill the river, but when a bit of the river broke, the ray shattered as well. No action was taken on the river for a moment. Then, in a Higher place, a new decision was reached. The river would be shrunk away from infinite, to a shape as small as an orb, but no! The river could not stretch to a length any less.

Another thousand moments, and the Higher light gingerly formed the river into a small circle. The river was an infinite shape still, so the ray felt no recoil.

The places grew under Higher rules, and to prevent the mess from going from one place to another, the golden circle was hidden in each place. This way, most of the mess stayed where it was supposed to stay, and the lower places all were free to be acted on by a Higher place.

One such lower place captured Higher interest. Its organisms grew in a manner later dubbed evolution, and despite its obedience of the Higher laws, it became just as varied and complex as the lawless places. An organism and its family rooted to the ground and strove to touch the sky, drawing life from the sun, turning carbon to oxygen. The golden circle had been hidden in the center of this organism, just one of many thousands of rings.

A being from a dark world came through the circle. It was not moved back - this would have been suspicious.

The organism housing the circle was burned, along with its family, to white ash. This was mess, and undesirable to Higher eyes. But interference was even less desirable at this point. There must be no anomalies.

Ten thousand years later, some preacher unknowingly built a church over the circle.


	10. The Drive

Even if not as consistent as the dark, malicious world IT had come from, Earth had consistency. The trajectory of events was a predictable one, no outcome was random, and all life operated under certain laws. Ergo, it should undoubtedly be possible to impose onto the world an even tighter set of laws.

Why, then, was it so _hard?_ Humanity was volatile. And humans were _insane. _Regardless of how much order The Auditor imposed on one of their minds, that mind would be wandering inanely days later. It was always possible to wipe out a mind and replace it with obedience, but then the mind lost all intelligence and power, properties necessary to have any value on the battlefield.

IT could not successfully wage a war against chaos if ITS soldiers needed their every action to be managed. That is why that infuriating human, James, had been able to kill so many. It had been a matter of intelligence, and it was intelligence that The Auditor would need ITS soldiers to have.

A more lax approach had been effective insofar. As an experiment, The Auditor had not interfered in the mind of Sheriff Jay, and the results had been as good as could be anticipated. The man creatively and effectively carried out the few assignments he was given, and at this point, was the only human who did not fray The Auditor's vast mind.

Tricky was clinically insane, and controlling him would soon be beyond The Auditor's power. James implicitly trusted the God he worshipped, but allowed himself an annoyingly large amount of room for interpretation. As the Sheriff had been a correct solution to every other problem, The Auditor thought IT would apply him to these as well.

_Occupy Tricky. He is _not_ to be bored. _Read the memo sent to Sheriff Jay._ Initiate recruiting campaign to replenish East Complex._

Impassive even at the ludicrous suggestion that East Complex was salvageable, he assigned Tricky to hunt down some human trafficker and began recruiting faster than ever before.

An effective servant.

The Auditor didn't know where the self-proclaimed Savior was, despite their psychological connection. The Auditor had been trying to locate the man for days since James flew through the East Complex, slaughtering IT's many eyes as he went, losing himself The Auditor's sight. It occurred to The Auditor that Sheriff Jay could probably find the Savior faster than The Auditor's - "God"'s - probing questions would.

_And find Unit James of North Complex, Squadron A._

_Mr. A_

The memo finished. Now, to ashen the forest. Even in this bountiful realm of energy and resources, The Auditor could not literally burn each organism in the world. IT had coerced from a scientist talk of potent nuclear weapons, but even all the radioactive material the world had to offer would not kill everything. And it seemed that the byproducts of such assaults would be even less ordered than the undamaged world. And strong as The Auditor was, it would be an impossible task to kill each item of mess one by one. But, an army might have better luck doing so... no, even an army could do little to damage an invisible amoeba. And what about that which was nonliving? Volcanoes, clouds, and terrain could not simply be killed, but they all were agonizingly disordered.

There must be some way to murder and terraform en masse. Well, Earth scientists had manipulated their environment by building and damming rivers and growing and killing crops. Maybe humanity held the key to its own destruction... yes, nuclear weapons were good evidence of that. But to put trust in humans? Relying on disorder to achieve ITS ends would only cause greater disorder.

But then, the Sheriff was a human, and he'd brought The Auditor nothing but better order.

Wrathful flames dripped down to pool on hard concrete. Never before had The Auditor facilitated such convoluted internal discussion. Answers were supposed to be easy. Any problem could be solved with sufficient power. This Earth, these humans, they had distorted ITS very self. Flames intensified, licking and slithering up cold metal beams.

No decisions. No thought. As in ITS place of origin, IT would merely act.

So one of six unfractured concrete faces was torn off its steel beams, letting harsh light into the perfectly dark chamber. The Auditor lashed out, launching plumes of black after the light, towards the rising sun. _That abomination will soon go out,_ IT thought. But for now, the plumes clouded the blue to an acceptable level.

Shocked onlookers stopped on the sidewalks, staring up at the newly-blackened sky. Compared to the evil close at hand, the tortured heavens were a benign sight. Mortal eyes were too small to witness the darkness coming next.

Black flames lanced towards the cattle, entering their pores, burning away the warmth, then exiting some orifice or another. A child ventured a glance at The Auditor, and bright green eyes were soon extinguished. The dam of the iris broke, and pupils overflowed to shroud the whites. The child did not look away until he was gone, head lolling back to look at the sky, back arching up, crown cracking against the pavement.

The mother didn't notice. The cells in her brain were dying one at a time.

Neither did the father. His blood had turned black, and he was walking among the undamaged corpses, stabbing them all with the glass from a broken window. So were a few other black blooded men. When everyone in sight was dead, they all slit their wrists and throats. The fire faded away, and now the scene looked like an ordinary, but highly improbable mass-murder. But IT knew very little about probability. The Auditor sunk into the shadows and slipped off, leaving maybe two hundred dead behind.

There. Decisive action. And immediate results. The block had been loud and bright, annoying. Now it was silent and dark, calm. Nevada's end needed to come about this way, responding to power, not causality.

Filthy street stretched before IT. No, The Auditor would not be subjected to filth. Embers narrowed and swept their gaze over the mess. The surface crackled and popped, turning to black soot. Now it was a road fit for walking. The Auditor glided over it, ruminating that for IT to change an object, the object needed only to be seen.

Shops and buildings diminished as IT approached the complex. It seemed that the Agency's wants held significant weight with the city planners. The Sheriff would undoubtedly add to that weight, and he was just the man to be speaking with.

Time to assume the guise of a man. Dress pants, a fine suit, a crisp tie. All black. Black hair. Black shoes. Nearly black grey eyes.

An idle secretary sat astute when IT strode into the Central Headquarters's top floor. IT eyed the clean marble and ordered room, then her freshly pressed clothes. A satisfactory facility.

"Mr. A." Said the secretary, blushing. A powerful entrepreneur had just checked her out.

"I'll speak with Sheriff Jay." Said the entrepreneur.

"Right away, sir." She spoke into some plastic device as The Auditor marched to the Sheriff's office.

IT opened the door with a habitual flick of the head to see Sheriff Jay at his desk, face blank. "Mr. A." Said the man, setting down a corresponding plastic device. "It's good to see you."

Recent remodeling had left a dimmer switch, so the office was dark. The Sheriff had ordered every employee but the secretary off of Floor Six, so it was calm as well. There were books on the bookshelf and a huge window behind the desk. There was little else. Mr. A stepped to the window to survey the bleak land below.

The Sheriff swiveled to face the glass. The sky was murky from plumes, even this far from the site of the homicides. The powers of The Auditor were far reaching. "I like this kind of weather." He said. "No need for sunscreen."

Strange. Didn't humans draw happiness from the sun? Maybe brightness aggravated this man as well.

"How many have you recruited?" IT asked.

"83 to East Complex. 39 are trainees, 18 are experienced fighters. The remaining 26 are engineers and architects." He responded immediately.

Fast work. "Is the area habitable?" The Auditor asked, a question whose answer IT already knew: After James's rampage, The Auditor had allowed the poison to leave the complex. New soldiers would stay human and retain intelligence.

"Mysteriously, yes. All 83 units have been transferred." The Sheriff said.

The man was full of correct answers. "Has Tricky been causing any problems?"

The Auditor detected a smirk on the Sheriff's mouth. "Not in the slightest."

Maybe there would be one correct answer more. "Has Unit James been found?"

"No." Said the Sheriff.

Bluntly honest. The Sheriff would play no games with Mr. A, IT could tell that much. "How are you enjoying your position?"

"Very well. I feel incredibly productive. I've been enjoying this closer relationship with the Agency." He replied.

"That is good. Is there anything that can be done to make your work more enjoyable?" Asked Mr. A.

"I have every resource I could ask for. No. You've been more than accommodating."

"Good." Said entrepreneur. IT peered deeper out the window, gaze scorching the earth beneath, searching it to the most basic elements. "However, I believe there is another resource that would benefit us both."

The Sheriff waited for the business owner to continue.

"Weather such as this does not come every day. But it can, and it should. There is a machine to be built, one that can affect the sky, the earth, and the seas." Said Mr. A.

The Sheriff hesitated for a moment. The man had already grasped what IT was implying. It was a machine to alter reality. "Where could such a machine be obtained?" He asked.

"The primary component, the one to alter reality, has already been obtained." The Auditor was that component. "It is already functional on a small scale. But in order to operate, it needs a thorough comprehension of the object it is acting on. To make it operate at full capacity, all of Earth needs to be contained in the machine's mind."

There was a brief silence.

"Mind?" The Sheriff inquired.

"The mind of the machine."

The silence returned.

"As in, the Central Processing Unit?" He asked.

Machines did not have minds. Another strange element of Earth's disorder. "Yes." Mr. A replied.

The Sheriff leaned back, thinking. "The memory of our machines has not advanced so far as that." He spoke as though he were explaining simple facts to one with little experience in earthly affairs. Which, The Auditor was. "Huge amounts of data would need to be contained."

The Auditor had not yet considered this issue. Why, in this place, was every variable confounding? Need every obstacle be nearly insurmountable? The room descended a few degrees.

"But," the Sheriff continued, apathetic to the temperature, "with the level of control your primary component offers us, we may be able to deal with this issue directly. The Agency should have no need to sidestep obstacles. Under my guidance, we'll run right through them."

_YES._ This was what IT needed. This was the man to finally spread order. There was no doubt now that the Sheriff was no ordinary, messy, feeble-minded human.

The meeting ended, but there were several more over the following days. The Sheriff solved each problem that was brought to his attention, proposing an antidote for every poison, a treatment for every ail. In the process, The Auditor divulged an ever increasing amount of information about the machine, and even about ITSELF. Near the end of their meetings, The Auditor felt secure in discussing things that might hint at ITS otherworldly nature. After all, the Sheriff didn't care about such things. He wouldn't involve himself in anything not directly related to his object, and his object was none other than order.

"So, storing this vast amount of information is a work well in progress." The Sheriff once told the Mr. A. "But how is this information to be obtained?"

Mr. A bared ITS teeth in an attempted smile. That was the easy part, the part done every day. IT needed some way to monitor the world, after all. "Your employee, Tricky." The Auditor began, closing ITS eyes. "Do you know where he is right now?"

"He should be hunting a pimp."

The Auditor looked through Tricky's eyes to see a large warehouse, windows broken, walls sprayed with graffiti. A burnt cohort was at his side. A car door opened and Tricky saw his feet on the ground, his AK untucked, and his right hand dripping with blood.

The last irked The Auditor. Weapons such as Tricky should be sent into battle in mint condition, undamaged. When the Drive was completed, this problem would go extinct.

"Tricky is entering a warehouse as we speak." The Auditor said. The Sheriff's ears subtly perked up.

IT felt adrenaline course through Tricky's blood. The clown worked with no system, moving from room to room at the slightest sound, firing often on enemies and often on nothing, killing his way to the top of the warehouse. IT felt his hands shake with anger, and saw two magazines wasted on the corpse of one man in a fine white suit. Then, on his way down, IT saw his eyes tear up and cause erratic fire when he saw a fiscally regrettable sight on the bottom floor.

Human minds.

Almost aggressively foolish.

Absolutely impossible to tame.

The disease that had taken Tricky's lifetime to prepare, with an aim to create an intelligent soldier who was still completely obedient, had failed miserably to remove Tricky's emotions. Far worse than the wound on his right hand was the open gash on his logical brain.

"He's just killed the occupants of a warehouse and is in the process of leveling it." Mr. A said, watching the clown's hands place charges on the building's load-bearing walls.

The Sheriff whistled. "Above the call of duty."

The Auditor saw Tricky's radio come into hand as he stepped outside. A moment later, the Sheriff's radio buzzed to life. "Tricky coming in, do you read me, over." The Sheriff told Tricky he was read. "Daddy Flow has been eliminated."

The sound of an explosion came over the radio, and The Auditor watched as fire grasped at dark sky. "Mission accomplished, good work, Unit Tricky. Over."

"Over and out."

The Sheriff eyed Mr. A. "Watching from a distance... that's an interesting ability." He said. He cocked his head to one side. "You couldn't communicate in frequencies without a radio, could you?"

Of course. These human languages, English, Japanese, Brail, Radio, Gamma, were all easy to learn with The Auditor's vast power. A successful businessman nodded.

"That's interesting." Said the Sheriff.

The Auditor left and ventured down to the labyrinth of computers created to service the Drive. It was a nice place to be; it was dark, cold, and unpopulated. Engineers had explained to Mr. A a system by which large amounts of information could be stored. Many small objects known as 'electrons' had spins of either one or negative one. For those with a spin of one, the value one would be assigned. The others would be assigned a value of zero. This system was useful because thousands of terabytes of data could be stored in a very small area, but was not yet feasible for human engineers because they did not have the nanotechnology to manipulate and view the spins of so many particles simultaneously. But The Auditor could cheat.

IT telepathically linked the electron spins of a huge cube of aluminum to a giant terminal. Uncountable bits would be stored, arranged on an XYZ grid, digits corresponding to electrons from east to west, then north to south, then top to bottom. The connection would only be maintained as long as The Auditor was alive

Not alive. A Higher Place disagreed with that classification.

as long as The Auditor was surviving, but The Auditor had no doubts that ITS existence would continue forever. That's how the dark, consistent, malicious world was, and this world would soon be molded to The Auditor's will. Besides, if IT was destroyed, IT would have no need for the machine anyways. The cheat was thus perfectly sustainable.

In fact, rough software had already been written to operate the Drive. With The Auditor to power it, the machine might be ready for immediate use.

The Auditor quickly ascended to a secure room at the top of the building, forgoing the stairs, turning to shadow to rise through steel floors.

But IT was struck with an unexpected barrier before entering the room. The anti-teleportation perimeter that had once been impotent against The Auditor was now fully functional. IT was forced to enter a long code and wait for several locking mechanisms to disengage. But then The Auditor was there. The computer awaited with its wireless connection to the basement terminal. Right now, all of the employees whose minds The Auditor had entered were submitting a constant stream of information about their environments. And those environments were now subject to change.

The Auditor took ITS seat and commanded the keys to move. Lines of code raced across the screen. The Auditor saw through Tricky's eyes for a moment, absorbing the bedroom around him. A gun lay on his chest. A foot protruded from his cooler. A bare bulb swung above his bed.

The code called the velocity, acceleration, and position of the bulb, and calculated the force and timing required to still the bulb's motion. (The Sheriff had said that, later, less legwork would need to be done to use the Drive, but this rough software would suffice for the present.) The left click descended and the program ran. The Auditor saw the light still.

A successful first test. Now, for the second. The AK-47 resting in Tricky's hand would be turned into an AR-15. IT knew the design and technical specifications word for word, so IT entered a method to delete the AK before one to create an AR.

It was a lot of typing. But, code complete, IT hit run and awaited the results.

An error. Some variable not instantiated near the beginning of the code. The debug screen told all: Because Tricky could not perceive the internal mechanisms of the rifle, that information wasn't sent to the terminal. So that vital information was unavailable to the Drive.

That could be troubleshot. The third test was sure to be successful. The Auditor absorbed comprehensive information in every direction IT turned. There would be no error messages. The Auditor wrote the code to create a mini-gun on the ground beside IT. A couple hundred lines and a few minutes later, the mouse clicked run.

There were no error messages. The weapon appeared on the ground, and The Auditor appraised it with satisfaction. Incredible. Only a few lines of code to create such a powerful tool. And to imagine the possibilities of -

A deafening explosion tore through the room. Blinding white light faded away, and because The Auditor could neither be blinded nor deafened, IT saw the computer and everything else as they were destroyed. The mini-gun was gone, and from the marks on the floor, it had clearly been the source of the explosion. But, why? The code had functioned properly. The Auditor did not make errors. What could have been the issue?

The black flames withered. Creating matter took massive amounts of energy. The Auditor would need time to recover. IT took ITS sustenance until IT could stand, then black fire spread to the door and exited.

The Auditor ran into an Agency employee on the way down. "Excuse me." He said, looked up from his phone, then shrunk away from the deity before him.

The Auditor reached into his chest. There were the ribs, there were the lungs... there. The heart. IT grasped the pulsing organ and engulfed it in ITSELF, ignoring the need for intelligent men. Flammable black ran out from the valves and capacity for thought was snuffed out in an instant.

Another eye, another feeding ground. IT lapped up life force, barely stopping itself from consuming the body, and left the man leaning vacant against the wall. Was that acceptable? No. It wouldn't do to have one of these mindless, black-eyed humans in the complex. Maybe his intelligence could be restored, and IT could still feed, just slower.

No. These human minds were far too complex. Always an obstacle.

The Auditor did what IT needed to do. With the man gone, IT retreated to the basement and rested until morning, feeding off of the constant cycle of ITS agents' waste. When the morning came, The Auditor visited again the Sheriff's office. There was no need to waste time in creating the Drive, in perfecting the world, and these problems would be troubleshot as soon as possible. IT adopted the guise of a well dressed man.

"Hello, Mr. A." He said, setting down a newspaper. "How can I help you this morning?"

"The Drive doesn't work." Said Mr. A.

"Of course not. We haven't set up the external storage yet." The Sheriff replied.

"I did, last night, and the Drive had limited power. It passed the first trial. No others. My Agents did not supply enough information about their environment in order to instantiate necessary variables. Although I successfully created an object in my environment, which supplied plenty of information, but it was unstable. It exploded." Said Mr. A.

The Sheriff's eyebrows raised. "Do you know what caused the explosion?"

IT did. The instant before the explosion had been the most painful of ITS existence. Emotions were a foreign sensation to The Auditor, but in those long seconds of the mini-gun's existence, IT had been struck with a profound feeling of wrongness. The mini-gun did not belong in this world. Something had vocalized loudly that it was unacceptable. Something... Higher.

"Somehow, the object was not fundamentally cooperative with the world." Said Mr. A.

The Sheriff closed his eyes and nodded. "Yes." He said, a knowing air about him. "This is a problem I can fix. In the meantime, do not test the Drive. You can make your own alterations to the world, but do not use our software to do so."

"What is the issue, then? How do we fix it?" The entrepreneur asked.

"Through science. Whatever is powering the Drive may be perfectly capable of creating imitations of objects outside of the Drive, but when it attempts to affect real matter through the software, it does not have enough control over the foundations of reality. Has the keystone of the drive ever summoned a quark? Has it ever exerted gluon force?"

Mr. A shook ITS head. "Well, our team can adapt that keystone to control these things through the drive." Said the Sheriff. The Auditor was somewhat wary of adaption - obviously IT was the keystone, the supplier of the Drive's black, fiery power. What would happen to The Auditor were IT 'adapted'?

"And don't worry about your keystone." Smirked the Sheriff, sipping on some Scotch. "It won't be changed by the process."

Reassuring words. Hmm... how did the Sheriff know that those were the words to say?

It didn't matter. The Sheriff was an incredibly effective servant, and his reassurances were as boundless as his uses. IT had heard a phrase, once, advising one not to look a gift horse in the mouth. The Auditor would not doubt the origin of the Sheriff's many gifts.

"Have you found Unit James?" IT asked. He shook his head.

So Mr. A leaned back into ITS seat, looking idly onto the table. The Sheriff's office was always simple, fit with little more than a phone, a computer, a revolver, a bar, and an antique radio. Like The Auditor, the Sheriff wanted nothing to do with excess mess. It was thus unusual to see a newspaper on his table. "What is this?" IT asked.

The Sheriff scowled down at the paper. "Nothing but the standard complexities of SIN. My arduous task: To sort through the madness to find something of value."

Yes, truly that would be an arduous chore. So be it. If Sheriff Jay could make order of madness, so could The Auditor. IT requested the paper.

"I'm afraid there's nothing useful in this catalogue. Yesterday's news. I'll get your the next one." He said with a grin. A fair point. But, odd. Sheriff Jay was not one to contradict Mr. A in anything. The matter would be pressed.

"Still. I'd like the paper." Mr. A said.

"Don't concern yourself with it. These are infuriating human matters. You're far above them." A moment passed, and Mr. A's eyes narrowed. The Auditor believed, astonishingly, that IT was being refused something.

"Still." IT spoke in a powerful tenor. IT's eyes were burning with ire, and the Sheriff's mouth was set in a grim frown. A deep tension grew between them, pressing down on the table, heightening the atmospheric pressure. A touch of frost collected on the Sheriff's glass of water. Neither moved. Suddenly, the Sheriff's face broke into a smirk, and he poured them both drinks with expert speed. "Here." He said, sliding the drink over, diverting. "I apologize for doubting you. Now, we shouldn't dare let such an insignificant piece of paper interfere in the future of the Drive." Before The Auditor could stop him, he had taken a lighter to the corner of the newspaper. "There we are. I'm sorry to argue. This confounding world must be getting to me."

The words sounded honest, as usual, but this was too strange. Despite well reasoned words, The Sheriff's actions were abnormal. The Auditor had decided not to interfere in the man's mind, but this needed to be done to determine his loyalty. The Auditor stared into his eyes and entered.

One that could have been shocked would have been; the Sheriff's thoughts were barren and stripped of complexities. Only detectable were thoughts of the Drive and a sense of straightforwardness and loyalty. The Auditor supposed that the Sheriff was being honest. The temperature returned to room, and Mr. A stood to leave. "When I ask something, I expect it, Sheriff. There is no discussion."

The Sheriff nodded earnestly, with a smile that conveyed both remorse and amiability. There was surely no purpose turning ITS wrath upon this human. He was incredibly useful and his thoughts showed devout loyalty.

So Mr. A left, became The Auditor again, and waited in the basement until the Drive was ready. IT watched the world through ITS many eyes, becoming accustomed to the fighting style of humans. That would be useful later.

After a few days, the memo arrived.

_Mr. A,_

_Unit James has been located and recruited. His position can be tracked from the Drive. The Drive is now fully operational, with matter affecting capability. Please limit usage to testing for the time being. Full scale upheaval may be hazardous at this time._

_Regards_

_Sheriff Jay_

Upstairs. Through the floor. No, there's a perimeter. In the door. To the computer. Through the system. Now was the time to bring order.

Now was the time of the Drive.


	11. The Club

**Summer. The hiatus ends.**

Five

He sat quietly on the couch. The TV was low. Fidgeting was kept to a minimum. "Mom?" He said, even though she had a headache.

"I have a migraine." She replied.

"I'm sorry." He said. He was hurting her head again. He didn't like to hurt her. "I'm sorry. Can we go to the ice cream store?"

She looked over to the television to see the gimmicky SIN Soft Serve commercial. He looked over at her, but she didn't look back, just grimaced and returned to her paperwork. "Not now. Maybe your dad can take you when he gets home."

That's right, Dad was getting home today! The boy smiled. It had been a week now, and Hugh'd been at home whenever he wasn't at kindergarten. Dad could take him to SIN Soft Serve, to see a clown, and maybe to play at the studio. Until then, he could just watch television. The people on TV improved houses then sold them, and it was the only show Mom could watch when she was with him. She couldn't watch her adult shows because he was there.

"Mom, what papers are you doing?" The boy asked.

"Taxes. Watch TV. Don't talk. I have a headache." She replied.

He watched TV and waited for Dad to come home. That was all he needed. Dad needed to come home and they could finally go out again. He was going to ask his mom where Dad was, but she would get mad at him again.

He squeaked. Mom slapped down her pencil and buried her head in your hands. "I'm sor-"

But Mom was already mad. "Don't start with that again." She said. "I swear to God, if you make that noise one more time, you're going to split my head open. We'll see how many squeaks you make when you're grounded."

"I'm sorry Mom, I couldn't -" But this time, he was interrupted by the door opening.

"Family." Came a rumbling voice from the doorway. The boy spun towards the door, knees up on the couch cushions. _Here he is._

"Daddy!" He squealed, and Mom clutched her head. Hugh ran over and jumped into his arms.

"Hey, Hugh boy! How'd you two do without me? Did you keep your mother out of trouble?"

Hugh nodded and smiled. That was his job when Dad was gone, to take care of Mom. It wasn't his favorite job, but Dad was always happy with Hugh's work. "I have a headache." Said Mom.

"We're sorry, Mom." Dad said, rocking Hugh. "We'll keep it down. Hey, I got some great work done with the band this week! We'll finish mixing in April, then their album's coming out. I think this is going to be a big one, Marcy."

She looked at Dad without smiling. Hugh remembered a time when Mom used to smile and hug him tenderly. But that was before everything happened. "You'll finish mixing in April?" She asked. Dad nodded. "How long?"

"Well, Marcy, it's a creative process. I need to give the artists what they want, and sometimes it can take some time to..."

"How long?" She asked. Dad said a couple weeks. "A couple weeks." She repeated, not looking at him anymore. "Another couple weeks. You've wasted six months on this project, and that paycheck you keep talking about is always 'just a little while away'. And you're leaving again? It's bad enough that this week you left me here with -"

"Marcy!" Dad said. Dad left her here with what?

She was quiet for a moment. "Hugh, go to your room. I need to speak with your father."

No, he didn't want to go to his room. It was getting dark, and he'd be lonely again, and this last week had been even darker than the last week without Dad. He was about to complain, but Dad spoke instead.

"No, Marcy. You're not going to send Hugh to his room so you can yell at me. I just got home, can't we enjoy ourselves? I bought a movie."

She threw up her hands. "You're right. There's no point sending Hugh to his room, because these walls are just about paper thin. The brain-dead kid would hear all of it."

"Hugh, get your shoes." Dad said. Hugh scurried to the closet. They'd stop talking like this as soon as they went out.

"Thank God. Bring home some Advil." Said Mom.

"Maybe I'll bring home a better woman." He muttered.

"Excuse me?"

"What, you think I like coming home to this attitude? Despite what you think, I've been working hard this week." He said, getting louder.

"And I haven't? Look at this mess." She said, motioning to the papers on her desk. "While you're out doing shady business with your music buddies, I'm back here practically laundering -"

A dark look silenced the wife. Hugh's eyes pleaded with his father to leave. "You're ready, buddy? Let's go. Say bye to mommy."

"Bye mom." Hugh said, without making eye contact. He and his dad headed into the hallway, father taking upset strides, son trying to keep up. Dad only relaxed when he was outside the building.

"So, Hugh." He said, letting out a breath, smile growing on his face. "Where do you want to go?"

"SIN Soft Serve." Hugh instantly replied.

Dad chuckled at his enthusiasm. "SIN Soft Serve it is. It's a bit of a walk, though."

That was fine. Hugh liked the cold air. It calmed his squeak, just like the light. The walk there was twenty minutes because Dad didn't have a car, but Hugh was glad. They got a chance to talk. Dad was very funny, and he had a lot of stories about the artists he worked with. They were there before he knew it.

"I have two strawberry scoops in a cone, three Dutch chocolate in a cup, is that right?" Asked the woman at the counter. Dad said yes. "Good. What's your name?"

"Mr. Tricks." Said Dad.

"Have a seat there, we'll call you up when your ice cream is ready."

"Thank you." He said, winking at the girl before he sat. Her face got red, and she smiled until she gave them their ice cream and sent them to a table.

"Tell another story about the band." Insisted Hugh.

Dad laughed and took a drink from his silver bottle. "Actually, Hugh..." He began, sipping again. "I saved the band this week."

Hugh's eyebrows raised. "Saved them from what?"

"Well, the bond holding the band together was fragile. When they were on drugs they got along great and wrote great lyrics. But by the time I got there, they'd been cooped up without their poisons for weeks. Every talk was an argument, every recording a forum for invective. At that point, they wanted to finish the album and break up the group.

"I didn't let them. Their first eight tracks were just too good, vocals mixed and polished. They couldn't record another two tracks with an antagonistic mindset. And they _can't _call it quits after their debut album. It's just too good. So I gave them what they wanted. I had to take out a loan, but I got them a key of what they needed. And they're finishing now."

"Can I hear it?" Hugh asked. Dad smiled.

They took their ice creams down to the studio, abandoned, dark. Hugh would've been scared if his father hadn't been there, but Dad kept the monsters away. The lights came on and the speakers turned up. Forty minutes later, Hugh was lying in his Dad's lap, dozing to electronic sounds.

"It sounds like a superhero made it." Yawned Hugh, getting on Dad's back to leave.

"I wouldn't say they're superheroes, but..."

"You're the superhero." And with that, he fell asleep.

He awoke to the sound of the apartment door. Dad set him down and they made their way to their room. "Marcy, it's me." Dad said, knocking on the door. They couldn't hear anything inside, and there was no light coming under the door. "Marcy, open up."

She didn't respond. Hugh's heart beat a bit faster. It was dark inside. Anything could happen in the dark. Why wasn't she responding? What if she was hurt? Hugh remembered Dad telling him that if he ran in the dark he might fall and crack his head. Hugh saw her head cracked open, eyes wide, bleeding over the carpet.

But Dad pulled a key from under the doormat and stuck it in the knob, and Mom was alive and well on the sofa, fixing Hugh with a glare like she wanted to crack his head open. "You're drunk." She told dad. Hugh didn't know why she was angry. He didn't know why cold hands seemed to be gripping his throat. All he knew was that she was displeased.

Now

All he knew was that IT was displeased. He'd failed, he'd been too disobedient, and he was being given up on. This secretary was his punishment. "Mr. Hugh Tricks?" She asked, looking up at him.

"Tricky." He corrected.

"Of course." She said. She spoke into her phone then hung it up. "Sheriff Jay will see you now."

"Thanks." Tricky said to the woman. On his way to the Sheriff's office, Tricky realized just how few people there were on the large top floor, and how unnervingly clean the space was. He opened the door and stepped inside.

"Hello, Tricky." Said the Sheriff.

"Hey Brass." Tricky replied.

The Sheriff frowned at him. "How're you doing today, Tricky? I'm sure you have something interesting to tell me. You're my most interesting employee." He said. Tricky did not reply, just stared out the sliver of bare glass in the curtain's center, casting harsh light onto the Sheriff's shoulder and desk, silhouetting half of his face. The Sheriff studied him.

"You don't want to be here. Why not?" He asked.

Tricky laughed. "This is my punishment, Sheriff. I was thinking the wrong thoughts and nearly being disobedient. Now I haven't heard any orders or guidance in weeks, except to accept my demotion to North Complex janitor."

"You're mistaken. We have good work for you here."

"Yes, a janitor's work. Killing the dissident to wipe up your messes."

The Sheriff sat back. He pulled an opaque yellow bottle from his desk drawer, took a pill, and set the bottle on the table. Tricky gulped when he saw the label. "Was that a Valium?"

"I don't know why you want guidance, much less orders. You look like you could take on any challenge you could assign yourself, no need for a puppeteer."

"Can I see that bottle?" Tricky asked.

"I doubt any boss of yours would be okay with you popping pills." Said the Sheriff.

_The Auditor wasn't._

"I imagine that would interfere in your taking orders." Said the Sheriff.

"I need ITS orders!" Tricky retorted, voice a decibel louder. But a voice many decibels smaller said that he hated ITS orders, that ITS orders had burned his acquaintance and killed innocents.

"Then you don't need pills." Replied the Sheriff, oblivious to Tricky's internal tumult. "In any case, I can tell that you're tired of killing the 'dissident', as you say. I have a more constructive job for you up at the East Complex."

The East Complex... yes, he knew that place. He had a faded memory of himself sneaking into a 2004 Corvette and holding a gun on some man cast in shadow. Tricky hadn't truly said or done any of it, though, merely allowed ITS voice to seep through his mouth. But despite how tainted IT had made the memory, Tricky felt that he'd seen that man since then.

"There's a lot of damage there. A lot of cleanup to do. I want you to take charge of repopulating the complex and managing that branch. Let you be in charge for once." Said the Sheriff. "Of course, if you'd rather wash your hands of this demotion, it's your choice to walk out that door. You're in control."

_I'm in control?_ No, he couldn't be in control, not with this mind. That would be dangerous. Why was the Sheriff offering him this job? Was it another one of ITS tricks?

_Shut up, that's exactly the kind of thought that got you put here. It would never trick you! At least, not with malicious intent! _

But maybe he wanted to be put here. He'd be in control for the first time in his life. "What would I be in charge of at the East Complex?" He asked.

"Anything. Everything. What did... IT... put you in charge of?" Asked the Sheriff.

Whoops, the Sheriff wasn't supposed to hear that. Tricky was supposed to refer to his master as Mr. A. "Mr. A, not IT. My job was perfecting the imperfect, making telephone calls, and recruiting."

The Sheriff paused as though working something over in his head. After a moment, he asked who Tricky had recruited.

Tricky was struck with the memory of his first encounter with the recruit. It had been dark, and the man had had a deadpan expression, moving slowly, taking his time to close an empty soup kitchen. There'd been a bandage over one of his eyes. He'd seemed to be whispering something. The Auditor kept telling Tricky all the evil things the man had done: mainly resisting The Auditor.

"We're closed." The man had said when Tricky walked in, not looking up from his lazy hands and metal dishes. "Come back in tomorrow."

"I'm hungry." IT had said through Tricky's mouth. "Is there any soup left over?"

The man had sighed. "Listen, buddy, I know what it's like to be hungry. But we're closing up. Stick it out for the night, come back early tomorrow. Get here at six and you'll be first in line."

Tricky had taken one of the man's dishes and broke it over his head, then dragged his limp body to the trunk, snuck his unconscious acquaintance up to his hotel room. Tricky'd tied him up, put on the gas, and given him a talk about being positive. When the man came back to him, recruited and with a burnt face, Tricky remembered briefly regretting it, then forgetting that regret. It made him sad that he still couldn't remember his memories.

"I never learned any names." Tricky said. "I just followed orders."

"Mr. A's orders?" Asked the Sheriff.

"I don't know what I'm allowed to tell you." Tricky said.

"I'm sure anything you aren't allowed to say would have been made clear to you. Besides, even if you said something out of line, who would know? It's just us in here." Said the Sheriff.

"He'd know." Tricky said immediately. "He always knows, whether it's where I am or what I'm doing or what I'm thinking, IT..." Tricky stopped, closed his mouth, and looked back to the window. He was certainly saying too much now.

"It's no problem, Tricky." Said the Sheriff, waving it off. "You don't have to say anything more than you want to. In any case, there's a car outside waiting to take you to East Complex. I've taken the liberty of appointing you a personal assistant until you get your feet under you. So, what do you say? Do you want East Complex?"

Tricky smiled and stood up, the Sheriff followed suit. Tricky shook his hand, making the man wince at an overly strong grip. Then he was on his way to East Complex. He drove through the field, looking over winter grass, running to brighter things.

Eight

He sprinted through the field, admiring summer grass, running from darker things. "You're dead meat, Hugh!" One of them shouted.

He ran faster, skipping over a stone, a stump, approaching the forest. "Slow down!" Panted another.

He did, lingering a moment by a tree, then trotting along the forest edge.

"I've got you!" Roared the blond boy, tackling him from behind. Hugh screamed in fear as the others piled on. They tore off his skin and chomped on the muscle below, spitting out splintered bone and drinking red blood.

"Alright, you're dead! Who's next?" Said a dark thing, and Hugh was inducted into their terrible ranks. He pointed to the blond boy, the blond boy sprinted away.

When their game was done, they lay in the brittle grass. Catching your breath was a good feeling.

"Who taught you that game?" Asked the boy with red hair.

Hugh shrugged. "I thought of it."

"I can't think of games." The ginger boy said.

"You just can't think. Your hair burned up all the games in your thinker." Hugh replied. The boys laughed and smiled, all except the one with black hair.

"You're crazy fucking loco." Said the blond boy.

The ground shadowed in the fading dusk. "It's getting dark. Let's go in, and your mom can make us cookies like she said." Said the boy with blond hair.

Hugh stiffened in thought of his mom. "I don't want to go in." He said.

"Hugh doesn't like cookies." Taunted the one with black hair. Hugh didn't much like that one.

"Let's go in the forest." Said the red haired boy. Hugh rolled his head back to look at the forest. It was dark, and the sun was setting, and there might've been bad things in there. The blond boy agreed that the forest would be goddamn fun.

"Wait... it's getting dark. Let's go inside. We can get cookies."

"Are you afraid of the forest?" Asked the black haired one. Hugh didn't respond. "He is!" Shouted the black haired one, eyes glinting in malice. "Hu-ugh's a sca-aredy cat!" He sang.

"Fine, let's go." Hugh said. The one with black hair took off into the forest, drawing the other two behind him and leaving Hugh terribly alone. "Wait up!" He yelled, jumped in a spaceship for solace, and _vroom_ed after their path.

The trail took him to a clearing, and Hugh could no longer find them through the tall grass. "Guys! Where are you?" He called, getting nervous. It would be dark soon, just like his room, and he didn't have his night-light out here. After hearing no reply from his friends, he started back home.

Or not. Home was lost from view, and the trees cast heavy shadows, obscuring the way back. He was beginning to panic. He made the loud hiccup-squeal that he only made when he was nervous, and his body had a small spasm. "Guys!" He called, one last time. But they were probably back home already.

There seemed to be very few options. During the day, anything was possible. He could solve any problem, be anyone, do anything. During the night... anything was possible. But not the good kind of anything.

But look! Footprints in the mud! He chased after them, curving ever to the left. He passed a mossy rock, then a twisted tree, then a rotting squirrel. Hugh liked to poke squirrels in the daytime, but at night they might stand up and sink a row of tiny needles into his eye, then pry open his lips and worm through his throat to decompose.

He stopped dead in his tracks when a twig snapped under his foot. Something surely would have heard that. Was there something to the left of him? He swiveled around to make sure, backing against a twisted tree trunk. He could almost make out one of the darker things that had haunted his late dreams, with the scraps of skin hanging from their mouths, with the red burning in their eyes.

"_You're dead meat, Hugh." _It might have said to him, gnawing the meat off his corpse. He shivered when his imagination made it real, stalking in from behind, laughing a laugh deeper than the echo of a bottomless cavern. He reminded himself to ignore it. Only acknowledging them made them seem real.

"_Hu-ugh."_ Sang the dark thing. In the day they were toys - they had so much more power over him at night.

"Go away." He whispered, not loud enough to be heard.

"You're dead meat, Hugh." Said a voice right next to him.

"Who's there?" Demanded Hugh, shocked that the voice sounded so real.

"It's me, idiot." Said the black haired boy, leaning against a mossy rock. He was grinning and his black pupils were glinting again.

For some reason, Hugh wasn't relieved. "Okay. Let's go home." He said cautiously.

The boy shrugged, strolling through the leaves, not caring how many twigs he snapped. Each one made Hugh wince. "Follow the north star, obviously." He said, pointing it out.

_My God._ Hugh shivered. The stars were out already.

"But I want to talk a bit first." Said the black haired boy, stopping at a rotten squirrel and kicking its carcass. Hugh'd been walking in a circle.

"I don't have anything to say to you." Hugh said, following the boy's advice, taking the north star back home. He happened to step on some of his old footprints as he went, but stopped suddenly when he found, looking down, that the trail he'd left so recently vanished a few feet in front of him. He found that his feet were lodged in the final remaining prints, shoes matching perfectly the marks' size.

The black haired kid gave a harsh laugh. "There's no use running. Your path is already lain."

What? His path was already lain? The black haired kid's speech had grown strange and stripped Hugh of any comfort he might have had.

"What do you want to talk about?" Hugh asked.

"How about your mom?" The kid answered immediately. The hairs on Hugh's neck stood up. He very much didn't want to talk about her. "She's a bitch, do you know that? I hear she sucks dick for free. Maybe I'll get some."

Hugh didn't respond.

"Oh, so you already know your mom's a bitch. What, she didn't like you? Maybe hit you a few times? Knew just how brain-dead you were?" Hugh still said nothing. Small spasm.

"I see how it is." Said the black haired boy, grinning. "Your dad is a talentless jackass who got lucky with a good band, made big money. What's he done since then, huh? Suck di-"

Hugh slugged him in the face before he could finish. Hugh had always been especially fast, especially strong. This showed in the black haired boy's bloody nose. "Is that all you've got?" Asked the boy, plugging one nostril and blowing blood onto the ground.

Hugh punched him twice more in the face, then drove him to the ground and worked his stomach. Satisfied and panting, he stood up to follow the north star home, rubbing his tender knuckles.

"Hugh!" Said the blond boy when Hugh emerged from the forest. "Where were you two?"

"Just playing." Hugh said.

"It's getting really dark out. We should go in. Hey! Come out of there!" Red shouted to black. Black didn't respond. Hugh knew that black was deep in the forest, recovering from the blows Hugh had dealt him. What would people think of that, anyways? His friends fought all the time, but they never did it that hard. Maybe this was bad.

Several minutes passed. Each second that the black haired boy did not emerge increased the tension among the three friends. Eventually, Hugh's mother stuck her head outside. "Boys! Time to come in!"

Flashlights. Parents. Interrogation.

"W-we were just playing outside." Sobbed the blond boy to the missing one's mother. "It was getting dark, and h-he said that we should go inside, that he was going to find Hugh. And then we went back out to wait for them, that's all I know, honest."

Hugh hadn't said anything, just sat on the porch with a blank face and his hands in his pockets, ignoring anyone who tried to talk to him. None of them were his dad, so he had nothing to say. His missing friend's words kept rattling in his head, though, so he drowned them out with his Walkman, turned loud, playing his dad's first album.

Then the missing kid was found, and Hugh watched the child's father carry him from the forest. People rushed to bring him water, bandages, and anything they thought he might need. He was set down on a well-cushioned lawn chair. Hugh saw a bloody nose and a black eye. Hugh had given him those. But he also saw an oddly twisted arm and blood seeping through clothes. Those were injuries Hugh didn't remember delivering. The boy's father bent close and asked, "Son, what happened?"

The boy gave no reply, just pointed at Hugh, whose hands were now out of his pockets to reveal bloodied and raw knuckles.

The boy was soon on his way to the hospital, and Hugh was soon locked in his room. The night light was off, the real lights were on. Two hours passed with music. After all, there was no possibility of sleep.

He hardly heard the knock over his blaring headphones. But he turned them down and let the door open.

"Hey, buddy." Said his father, standing in the doorway. His demeanor was calm and reassuring, almost like the events of the night had never taken place. "Wanna go to SIN Soft Serve?"

The strawberry was good. His father was better. Despite the circumstances, his father had made Hugh laugh several times already, wiping violence from his mind and reducing him to eight year old giggles. The spasms that near his mother were so barely contained felt far away now.

"Tell me about your new project." Hugh inquired.

"Oh man, Hugh..." He said, closing his eyes and leaning back in his chair, only two legs on the ground. "You remember the first band I worked with? The one that took us from rags to riches?" Hugh nodded. "They're finally off tour. And apparently I'm the first one they called when they got back. Hugh, they want me to handle everything this time! Not just mixing, they want every beat on their album produced by me."

Hugh's eyebrows rose. "That sounds like a lot of work."

"I'll be provided a full team of audio engineers. I have every resource I can imagine at my disposal, and it feels like all my years of work have been leading to this moment. I'm ready to create my masterpiece here." Said his father.

"That's great, dad!" Hugh wasn't just excited for his father's commercial success or personal satisfaction. He believed that his father would be creating something Hugh would listen to for the rest of his life.

"Thank you." But now his expression sobered, and smiling lines disappeared. He paused for a moment, as if in waiting long enough, Earthly woes would fall away and only joy would be left. Not so.

"Hugh, we need to talk about what happened." He said. Hugh looked away, down at the table. His ice cream was gone. "What happened in the forest, Hugh?"

Hugh told him most of the story, leaving out the more disturbing bits that involved squirrels and darker things. His father considered it as a sage might, nodding in accord and frowning often. "This boy clearly isn't a good friend for you." Said his father.

"He's evil." Hugh said.

"Evil is a strong word, Hugh. Murderers, rapists, tyrants might be evil. This kid is mean. What you did was closer to evil than him - but it was still very, very far away." He said hurriedly as Hugh was taken aback. "You didn't know what you were doing. You're still so young. So I'll tell you now, violence isn't how you should respond to meanness. Don't be bad because someone else is being bad."

Hugh absorbed this. "Is violence ever good?" He asked.

"Yes. The military is good. So are police officers... well, sometimes. You should only ever be violent to stop other violence. That's a good act, just like what superman does. But you can't hurt people for being mean. That's bad." Said his father.

"What about if you hurt someone on accident, or if you thought they were being violent and they weren't?"

His father sighed. "There may be a grey area between good and evil. Damn, Hugh, it's hard to have to tell you this when you're so young. You don't need the world's ethical dilemmas dangling over your head."

But Hugh's eyes were just as curious as before, so his father drank from his silver bottle, then wordlessly poured Hugh a small cup of strong smelling water. "Different people have different ideas of right and wrong. Most people do bad things every day, even if they're not evil, just a little bit wrong. They justify their behavior in different ways, just trying to make themselves feel better about it, so they can take whatever they want without any guilt. And the government sure doesn't help. They often claim neutral things to be bad, or bad things to be good. It can be hard to decide, sometimes, what the right thing to do is. But everyone knows it in their heart. If you accidentally do something bad, if you hurt someone without meaning to, you'll know what you've done. The best thing to do afterwards is just to apologize." Hugh's father drank, and so did Hugh.

"I think the most evil people are the ones who don't care what's good and what's bad. Some just can't tell in their hearts what the evil thing is..." That was Hugh. "But as long as they care, as long as they try to do what's right, they'll never really be evil."

So the next day, Hugh went to the black haired boy's house to apologize, and the boy made a show of cowering in return. He played energetic music and watched the sun swim through blue. He tried to ignore the disgusted looks he got from his mother.

Some weeks passed. His father's talk of morality seemed to help him when he was scared at night, and his spasms seemed to be fading. He had a playdate this evening. Things were looking up.

"You're crazy fucking loco." Said the blond boy when they all met up near the river. Hugh took off his shoes and put his feet in the water, toes wriggling in the mud at the bottom. A frog hopped nearby, and he snatched it up and held it carefully. Its chest swelled and it burped out a lazy ribbit. Hugh admired its delicate, glistening skin before setting it in the water.

"More like crazy fucking retarded." Said the black haired kid.

"Boy, you're just mad because Hugh beat your ass. I would'a beat your ass too if you called my mom a name." Said the red haired boy.

The kid with black hair snorted, watching the other two descend into the water beside Hugh. The kids beside him made a few attempts to catch a frog. "How'd you do that?" Asked the blond boy after several failures. "You're goddamn fucking fast."

It was a good day. They ate the lunches most of their mothers had made and drank plenty of water. Then it started getting dark. Hugh knew better this time. He knew he'd have to go in soon, before his mind started deceiving him.

"I need to pee, then let's go home." He said.

The black haired one snorted. "You really are afraid of the dark, aren't you? Come on, wimp. Stay out."

"No. You can stay out if you want. I'll be heading inside." Hugh replied steadily.

"Yeah, shut up, lump-face." Said the ginger, referring to the injured boy's bruises.

"There ain't no bathroom here. Where you peeing?" Asked the blond boy.

"Maybe behind a tree, maybe in your butt." Said Hugh. The blond boy laughed, called Hugh crazy fucking batshit loco.

He found a tree a good distance from the river, unzipped his shorts, and relieved himself. He listened to the sounds of the forest as he went. The birds' chirping was fading, but taking its place was a chorus of crickets. Some sounds came from the river as well. There was some talking, then a bit of yelling, then some splashing.

"Hey, cut it out!" Hugh heard the blond one say. It didn't seem as lighthearted as Hugh was used to. He started back. "Seriously, fucking quit it! Quit -"

Hugh was running now, shoving branches and vines from his path, sprinting towards the river.

He burst from the trees, scratched thoroughly by branches and thorns. Ginger and blond were nowhere to be seen, but black was kneeling in the river, forcing something down.

"Hey!" Hugh called. "What are you doing?" The black haired one didn't respond. But as he got closer, Hugh saw something very bad.

Black was holding blond under the water.

"Hey, knock it off, he can't breathe under there." Said Hugh.

"No shit." The black haired one replied.

"Hey, knock it off!" Hugh said, kicking black off of his victim. Blond came up for a brief breath of air. Then black punched Hugh savagely in the face, dislodging at least one tooth. Hugh stumbled back and splashed onto his back, water softening his head's connection with rock.

He got up to see black holding down blond, banging his crown against the riverbed.

"No!" Hugh sputtered, spit and fresh water spewing from his lips. He knocked black off again, dodging his return blow, and pinning him to the mud beneath.

He remembered what his father had said earlier. Violence was bad. Unless it was used to stop other violence.

Hugh looked in his heart and found that the right thing was to kill black, so that black wouldn't kill anyone else.

Red ran down the pretty stream.

Ginger and blond found him resting over black's body, weeping quietly into the water. "Hugh?" Asked blond.

That was strange. How did blond get all the way over there, beside red? Hugh looked down. Blond was not in the river. He never had been.

The psychologist diagnosed schizophrenia, but said there were more complex aspects to Hugh's condition that he hadn't seen before. He recommended an MRI. The MRI returned a mostly normal body structure, but the frontal lobe returned random radio frequencies that could only be described as

static

The machine was sent in for repairs. Meanwhile, a second machine gave the same result. "I told you, we should have had him checked out years ago." Hugh's mother whispered not-very-quietly.

"Marcy. Hush." Said his father.

Spasms returned in full force. They were never identified as seizures, and no medical professional could determine just what they were a symptom of. Whatever they were, one occurred every hour at least.

Dad wasn't home to back him up. Dad would be gone this month and the next. First Hugh was put on drugs. They didn't work. He was sent to SIN Acres, Facility for the Severely Differently Abled for just a month, just to try it out.

Now

He'd been at East Complex for just a month, just to try it out.

Hugh had no office for the Sheriff to find him at. He was later told that locating him had been an arduous task. His voice had to contend with the sound of clanking swords and birds being shot from the sky.

"Tricky." Said the Sheriff on entering the warehouse. "You've got quite a facility here."

Tricky raised a hand to halt two grinning units, juggling three knives between them. They left the warehouse to leave Tricky and the Sheriff alone. "The bodies are all cleared out. We fixed the generators. Chemical output is up. And I've been training all the troops I requested."

The Sheriff nodded. "Only depressed or addicted soldiers, that's right. They look plenty happy now. You've done a good job here, Tricky, even if it is a bit unorthodox."

"So, what are you doing here?" Tricky asked.

"Checking up on progress. I couldn't exactly call your secretary, could I?" The Sheriff smiled.

Tricky laughed, taking his headphones down to his neck, finally engaged. "I knew I was forgetting something. I'll have East HQ and Communications up by tomorrow."

"No rush." The Sheriff waved it off. He looked around. "I see you've made some changes to the warehouse. Is it an auditorium now?"

Tricky quickly switched on the speakers and pulled his headphones back up, blaring Track One, equalizing, gradually shifting the pitch from low to high. He generated a few monophonic kicks and shifted to Track Two, waited for the good part, volume cranked to full, here it comes, _HELL YES LET'S HEAR THAT AGAIN,_ scratched the vinyl and spun back to replay.

The Sheriff clapped in appreciation when the headphones came down. "You play this for the men?" He asked.

Tricky shook his head. "No. Actually, I had all the walls soundproofed so they won't hear it. If they want to hear something good, they should skip over this, listen to this old beat." Hugh said, pulling out a cassette.

The Sheriff shrugged. "Whenever you feel you're ready, I suppose. Maybe I'm just uncultured, but that DJing was plenty good for me. In any case, I have something I need you to do."

"Hit somebody?" Tricky asked.

"Or have your men do it. They're a bit uncoordinated, but seem deadly enough. I've said it before, I'll say it again: It's all your choice."

"How well armed is the target?" The clown inquired.

"Better than your soldiers. They recently got a shipment of weapons from North Complex. And their recruitment strategy has been more than a little expansionist." The Sheriff replied.

Tricky's eyebrows scrunched together. "I don't really want to send them somewhere dangerous." He said. "Why are we killing these people?"

The Sheriff sighed. "Well, to be honest with you, they're hardly people. The leader's made his living by exploiting women, and recently he began sending assassins and destroying houses. I'd never ask you to do something that I believed was wrong, Tricky, and I can assure you that shutting down this operation is nothing short of saintly."

Tricky seemed to remember, a long time ago, having a conversation about right and wrong. Violence was bad. But not if it was to stop other violence. "Who's the leader?"

"He goes by the name of Daddy Flow."

"Is he evil?" Tricky asked very directly.

The Sheriff looked Tricky deep in the eyes and responded just as directly. "This man is quite possibly the most evil human being I have ever encountered. Every second he's alive is another second someone is being taken advantage of. Each breath he takes is one stolen from another's lungs. There's no moral grey area right here, Tricky. This one's pretty straightforward."

Tricky thought about it. Yes, this was right. He recalled a certain instance where he was wrong about what was right before... it was hazy, but he thought he'd hurt a child because of it. But now he was cured of the disease that had clouded his consciousness. Now he could take back his righteousness. What was more, he'd do it with his own two hands.

"Communications will be up by tomorrow. Send me the details then, and the moment I receive them, I'll be on my way. You can count on me, Sheriff Jay." Tricky said.

"That I can." Sheriff Jay replied. "A soldier of justice. You may not want to go in alone, though, just to be clear. I've heard stories about your strength, but it may not be enough for this rat den you're nearing." Tricky nodded, knowing just who he'd bring. His right hand man, his melty acquaintance, the man he owed his life to - not because the man had saved Tricky, but because Tricky'd killed the man.

The Sheriff left to go, but snapped his fingers as he remembered something else. "One last thing, Tricky. Just who is in charge of your chemical output?" Tricky told him unconsciously, distracted by thoughts of sickening human traffickers. The Sheriff left. Tricky went off to find his acquaintance.

The two of them had a knife fight in preparation for the attack. Tricky got his hand cut, didn't dress it. He didn't feel pain. He didn't need bandages.

The sky darkened. Much of the last month had been overcast, little light coming through the black clouds, but nights were especially dark. He remembered being afraid of the night sky as a child. Fear didn't mean much nowadays.

Grey leather, tinted windows. A sedan door swung open and Tricky stepped out, flicking runoff hand-blood to the street. His acquaintance stood beside him. Their guns weren't even tucked.

"What's a cop?" Tricky asked.

The burnt face didn't smile.

The rat den of immorality was a warehouse, covered in graffiti, windows broken, quiet inside. The thought of exploitation made Tricky's hands shake.

Door busted down, no knocking. Six or seven people shot right off the bat. Rooms blurred together, nothing different, just bullets and blood. He made his way upstairs, his acquaintance down. Pimp was about halfway to the top. Tricky knew it was him from Sheriff Jay's description. Tricky locked them both in a room with opulent furnishings. There was an actual golden goblet on the sex trafficker's table.

"My friend," said the pimp at gunpoint. "I see that you have some skill with the guns. I wish we had met under different circumstances, I might have hired you. Plenty of weapons, you see, but not enough men to wield them. In any case, why do you enter my humble abode? Is there any means by which I could get you to leave?"

The man was certainly verbose. Hugh put the gun's stock to his jaw to quiet him. "Why do you do what you do?" Tricky asked in righteous disgust.

"I like the money, friend, and I love the women. I'm sure you do as well. You could have any amount of either, you know. If you would just stop doing what you're doing." Tricky smiled. The man's speech sounded so much less eloquent when coming through bubbles of blood. But the man saw the smile as accord, not malice, and smiled in return.

"Where'd you get these Agency weapons?" Tricky asked. IT no longer interfered to quell his interest, so Tricky was feeling much more curious these days.

"They were a gift. Someone delivered them to us, parked them in Spot 7." The pimp replied.

That was strange. Tricky remembered making a delivery to Spot 7.

A weapons shipment, in fact. Stolen from the Agency.

Ah.

"Why do you ask? Would you like some weapons? You can have them. You can leave with every single gun in a cart, if you would please just go, please."

AH.

"You aren't looking so well, my friend."

_AHH._

With shaky hands, the pimp lit a cigarette.

"AHHH!"

Two magazines lay on the floor, and Tricky was panting, glaring at the dead criminal, white suit turned pink. The man would never pass through a metal detector unbothered again, and not just because he wouldn't be able to walk.

It was time Tricky left this rat den that he'd armed. "Acquaintance!" He cried hoarsely, stumbling down suddenly unsteady stairs. Each level his partner had taken held plentiful dead, all killed by a bullet to the face that left all features obscured with blood. Tricky passed no living men on his way down. But on the bottommost level was one man whose features were obscured not with blood, but with burns. The man sat against the wall, shot through the side of his head. His arms lay limp at his sides, gun a foot from his right hand.

"Acquaintance!" Tricky said, falling to his knees and feeling for a pulse. There was none.

Lifting dense weights had always been an easy feat for him, both as Tricky and as a boy whose name he didn't remember. His acquaintance came over his shoulder, and as Tricky carried him out, he took his revenge on the insidious rat den. Though the facility was empty, his guns all had been used up by the time he was outside of the warehouse.

Tinted windows and leather seats awaited him. He opened the back door and set the body down gently, positioning it in an upright position and pulling the seatbelt over its chest. It left blood smeared across grey leather.

Tricky took a final look at the vile place he'd helped to build, walls riddled with bullets and charges. He pulled a radio out of his pocket.

"Tricky coming in, do you read me, over." He said tonelessly. "Daddy Flow," the evil friend-killing bastard, "has been eliminated."

Three, two, one, and the charges detonated. Tricky didn't like the dark clouds, and my... the sky looked beautiful when it was lit up like that.

"Mission accomplished. Good work, Unit Tricky. Over." Said the Sheriff.

Hm. Sheriff Jay didn't usually attach the Agency title 'Unit'. "Over and out." Tricky said.

Tricky got in beside his friend, seat sticky and warm. The driver took him to a store where Tricky shopped for a few bags of ice and the largest cooler he could find. He returned to the car, and the driver started towards the Agency. "No." Tricky muttered, looking over the partition through half lidded eyes. "I don't want to go to East Complex right now." Tricky told the driver his old address, and the glass came back up. Tricky stared out the window. The night looked especially dull through the tint.

Tricky was beginning to dislike his curiosity. With it repressed by... Mr_._ A, Tricky never would have considered that his weapons delivery had killed his acquaintance or wondered how his acquaintance had even gotten shot when everyone else was dead. Well, the latter probably involved a fleeing culprit. But the former was more troublesome.

There it was. His old apartment. He remembered how he used to struggle to pay rent. He remembered the day he accepted IT, how he took whatever he wanted from whoever he wanted, whenever he wanted. He remembered when he'd returned to his landlord, holding a triumphant wad of hundreds. Rent was paid for the next thirty years.

The lobby had always been dingy. There was that one brown spot that was somehow browner than the rest of the floor, but could never be mopped up. Sometimes she thought she was the only one who could see it. Sometimes she thought she was the only one who cared.

The girl propped her head in her hands, almost asleep, watching still double doors. She remembered a time - and it really wasn't that long ago - when she still had prospects. She came through those doors instead of slaving for them. She went on dates in sparkly black dresses. One time, she was attacked by a madman and saved by a handsome hero.

A minute... didn't pass. Just dragged on. Maybe if she looked at the door hard enough, something interesting would walk through it.

Well, come on.

Any second now.

Nope. What wouldn't she give for some excitement? _I'd be willing to get attacked again._ She thought. She imagined it through a romantic filter.

Now a figure appeared through the door glass. Surely nobody exciting. Just a resident. Sometimes they came back late, drunk as they usually were. Her eyelids closed for a moment. Oh, sleep was an alluring mate. A overwhelming warmth, a seductive touch, a blanket that stretched with infinite width and length. But she couldn't sleep on the job. Her eyes opened.

The resident walked in like an insomniac, trudging his feet and hardly breathing. He was covered in blood and had an angry cut on his hand. He carried a rifle on his shoulder and pulled an open cooler behind him. Two feet stuck out of the box.

She watched in sudden alarm as the man disappeared down a hallway. Her hallway. She remembered the man from somewhere. Green hair... white face...

He moved farther in. Certainly, he would stop, he would open a door, and he would go inside. But he kept walking, kept coming closer to the last door. Her door.

She tried to recall memory of him. Sirens flooded her brain, subconscious trying desperately to keep her from some recollection. It must have been traumatic.

The man stopped in front of her door, and so did her thoughts. He stood still, drawing something from his pocket. She sat frozen, jaw slack.

_Don't go into my room. Don't go into my room. Don't go into my room._ She thought.

Because she knew who he was, now. A sticky note. A foot jammed in the door. A punch in the face. A nonsensical speech. A hysterical desire to run.

But he didn't go into her room. He stuck the key in the knob of the abandoned room next to it. He pulled his things in and left the door swinging behind him.

A gun lay on his chest. A foot protruded from his cooler. A bare bulb swung above his bed.

There were so many scientists at the Agency. One of them was bound to be able to revive his acquaintance, just as long as the body was cold.

There was a lesson to be learned here, somewhere. What bad had happened? _My acquaintance died._ What had caused that? _Me. I delivered of weapons to the trafficker. _And what could be done to avoid that in the future?

That was a harder question to answer. He'd only been following orders, and he couldn't just disobey. But something else occurred to him. IT - Mr. A - had ordered him to make the delivery. Mr. A had probably known exactly who the weapons were being delivered to - evil, violent people - and IT ordered them delivered anyways. Why would IT help evil people? No good person would ever help someone evil, right?

Tricky remembered someone telling him long ago that violence could be justified if used against evil. Acting against evil was good. So, acting with evil...

The lightbulb swinging above him suddenly stilled. Tricky felt ITS dark presence near him, and he immediately cleared all thoughts from his mind. He'd never thought that IT was evil before. He couldn't imagine what punishment he'd endure for it. So he closed his eyes tightly, stopped thinking at all, and waited for the presence to dissipate.

It had already been after midnight when Tricky fell to his bed, and increasingly guilty thoughts had plagued his hours. There'd been little sleep between then and the rising of the veiled sun.

To the halls with a gun and a cooler, past a girl sleeping at the front desk, then out the door. Tricky recognized her from somewhere. Into a cab, down to North Complex. The driver spent the drive ignoring the weapon and the sloppy edge of the cooler.

He entered the office unannounced. It wasn't as though a secretary would stop him. The Sheriff was watching a video on his laptop, but paused and closed it when Tricky walked in.

The secretary opened the door. "Sir, I'm very sorry. He just burst right in. Should I call security?"

"No need for that. Thank you." Said Sheriff Jay with a wave. He waited until the door closed to continue. "So, Tricky, what can I help you with on this dismal morning?"

It was nice to know that the Sheriff didn't like the weather either. Tricky had few enough connections with people. But weather could be one with the Sheriff. Put at ease, at least a little bit, Tricky recounted his ails. "I don't think I have a sense of morality, Sheriff Jay." Tricky muttered.

The Sheriff's brow furrowed. "Now why would you think that?" Tricky didn't answer for a moment. He'd killed his friend. A simple statement. He'd killed his friend. A simple statement, but hard to state. "Ah... do you think you did that wrong thing to that sex trafficker?" Asked the Sheriff.

"Exactly." Tricky replied. "I drove him the shipment of weapons he's been hurting people with." It was nice to have that off his chest.

At this, the Sheriff swept away his laptop and pulled in his phone. "Hold all calls." He said, eyes closed. "No one comes in."

The phone landed back in its place. He breathed as though a satisfying answer had just been supplied him, then Sheriff Jay fixed Tricky with a serious look. "But you took care of it. This isn't evidence of anything bad you've done. Rather, it means that you're learning from your mistakes and moving towards a more perfect morality."

Tricky turned down his head. "Maybe so. But there's something else."

"What?" Prompted the Sheriff.

"The weapons I supplied... they were used to do something especially bad. They killed my acquai... my friend. So that was me. I made him die." Tricky had planned, at this point, to ask if there was any treatment to save a corpse. But stating the truth of the matter made him realize that such a treatment was fantasy. It was a question not worth asking.

The Sheriff looked sympathetic. "I lost someone in a similar way." He murmured. "Not too long ago, in fact. She'd just told me that she loved me." The man's voice broke. "But black eyes took her away."

That was strange. Tricky knew of something that gave black eyes to its victims.

"I imagine you're feeling some sorrow. I know that I am." Said Sheriff Jay, uncorking a potent-looking bottle of brown stuff. Tricky was reminded of a small silver flask that he'd known many years ago. "Sorrow is hard." He said, pouring them both drink. He slid one to Tricky, who held it carefully and gave it a wary sniff. It smelled good.

"Luckily, there's a cure." Said the Sheriff.

Fifteen

_Luckily, there's a cure._

The day of those words had been a dark one. Humiliating tests had preceded it for months. Psychological evaluations, brain scans, and whispered words like 'delusional' and 'schizophrenic' would undoubtedly have stolen his pride if he'd had any left. But the ordeal was not offensive to Hugh. It could not have harmed his ego, because Hugh's ego had died alongside an evil, black haired child. Homicide had turned his days so empty that he was nearly grateful for the wave of emotion that came to him at night. And in the dark. And any time he was alone.

The emotion was fear. And, no... he wasn't nearly grateful for it. Hugh's nights made him long for empty days. But like many especially dark days, the day of those words marked an impending return to brightness.

There hadn't just been _a _cure. At first, there'd been shock therapy, anti-depressants, and mountains of sedatives. Hugh had spent his days in a thoughtless haze, lapsing into meaningful consciousness for only a few hours before his next dose. Treatments were experimental, but he had been on too many painkillers for them to hurt. And as his father supplied a steady stream of money for personal research and development, Hugh's treatment had condensed to one pill every morning.

Hugh considered this, sitting at the desk of SIN Acres's administrator. She had him fixed with a stare lacking any semblance of sympathy. When she spoke, it was with a blameful tone. "Your mother is dead." She barked.

Maybe it was the sedative portion of his morning pill, and maybe it was the fact that his mother had never visited him in SIN Acres, and he'd never wanted her to, but Hugh felt truly unaffected by the news. The administrator allowed a few seconds for a response, then continued without receiving one.

"However, that's not why you've been called in here. Your psychologist believes that the environment your mother created was partly to blame for your violence in the past. Reports also indicate that your treatment has been near perfectly effective in settling you down. The doctor wants you back to your father as soon as possible, and your father has agreed."

A spike of excitement cut through Hugh's pharmaceuticals. He hadn't seen his father in a very long time. Goodbye to barred windows, white walls, and a broken bedside lamp.

"That's not going to happen. We both know that you are not fit to reenter society, especially not under your father's care. However, my decision on the matter can be vetoed by the consent of you, your father, and a psychologist. I am required by law to offer you this document," She said, sliding him a page over the table, "but I'd advise you to return it to me before reading it."

Hugh skimmed the page. It looked fairly boilerplate, stipulating a month of care under his father and what was essentially parole for homicide. Hugh held his hand out for a pen. The woman's eyes narrowed.

"I am warning you not to sign that document, Hugh. Get up, leave this room. You can stay here. You can stay calm." She snarled when his hand didn't go down. "Don't ask for that pen again." She said.

Hugh's hand remained still, and she grudgingly snapped a pen in his direction. It was spinning and curving and meaning to fall to the ground, but Hugh caught it between two deft fingers and set to scribbling his name on a dotted line.

"There I was, thinking we'd made you obedient. Daddy made you forget all that, huh?" She said, smiling mirthlessly. "Well, either way, you won't be the boy your father remembered. You'll seem distant. He'll send you back. We'll all profit." The woman adopted an even viciouser smile. "But you'll be glad anyways, Hugh. I imagine you'll tire of him before your ride home is finished. And we'll all be here."

Hugh remained impassive. This woman could talk, but he'd soon be with his father again. He suppressed a grin. There was a cassette in his pocket.

"Your father was confident enough in your signature. He's in the parking lot. Go on, now, run from your safe haven. I'm sure the world will heartily welcome its latest murderer."

Hugh ran from his facility, and the world didn't seem to care. But his father did. The man hugged him hard, unmanaged stubble scratching Hugh's neck. His father looked at him with red-rimmed eyes, smiling, saying that he'd missed Hugh more than anything. They drove away, and Hugh slid his cassette gently into the stereo. The music began slow and deep, keys and strings spilling discordant notes. Then it ascended both in speed and pitch, reaching for lighter notes and harmonic chords. Hugh's father just smiled until the song ended, then paused the album.

"You kept the cassette I gave you." He said. Hugh nodded. "Could you play it at Acres?"

Hugh shrugged. "I may have stolen a Walkman."

His father laughed loudly. Hugh remembered, was fond of that laugh. It made him laugh too. Soon, they were gasping for air, father hardly gripping the wheel down the country road. "I must admit, Hugh... I thought you were on stuff. Like, so you wouldn't do anything like steal a Walkman, or things."

"There's a sedative in the medicine. That used to be most of my medicine, and I could barely think. But I think I've developed something of a tolerance, and I'm much more lucid than I was." He said.

"Well, shit, if the meds aren't keeping you calm, what the hell are they doing?" His father laughed. This time, Hugh didn't.

"Keeping the delusions out." Hugh said. "Maintaining my emotions."

"Oh. Sorry, kid, might have been a bit personal there."

"You're the one who's buying the stuff. If I were you, I'd have been wondering just what I was paying for." Now Hugh was smiling again, and his father smiled right along with him, and they shared a silver flask on their way home. Then they finished it, and Hugh's father tried to fill it back up as they drove. "I've got it." Said Hugh. His father smiled, and gladly turned his eyes back to the road.

The house looked beautiful. The gardens were even better tended than those of SIN Acres, and the exterior looked much more expensive. When Hugh thought about his childhood, it was usually about the youngest times. He'd nearly forgotten how wealthy his father had made them.

The inside was far less elegant. It was difficult to place all the trash that littered the floor. For Hugh, it didn't need much categorization, it just fell under the category of mess. At least mess was better than purity... but Hugh wondered what implications it had for his father.

"Hey, dad?" He began. "How have you been feeling about mom?"

His father stopped his tidying for a moment. "I shouldn't say anything about that." He replied at last. "I really... it's no good to say something spiteful of the dead."

Spite, then. His father seemed much more broken up about his wife's life than her death.

Hugh couldn't argue.

"How about the music? Put out anything new?" Hugh asked.

His father laughed and fell onto the sofa. "The bands..." He said, digging something out from the cushions. "Are dead. Every one of them. Hugh, I must say, people really don't like each other." He found what he'd been reaching for, dumped it on the glass coffee table, and popped a couple in his mouth.

"You need water for those?" Hugh asked. His father shook his head. Hugh picked up the empty bottle and read the label. Generic brand pain-killers, prescribed by Dr. Ableton of AAHW. His father didn't seem to be in pain.

So, Hugh sat back in one of many soft chairs, reclining for the first time in years into his home. But as he began to drift off, his father surprised him to consciousness. "Speaking of pills, SINNY Acres is insane if they think I'm keeping you on their sedatives. You're not a damn animal."

"Well..." Hugh's words caught in his throat. "I did do something evil."

"I'm not gonna just'fy 'evil' with a response." Said his father, beginning to slur. "I dunno, maybe you still need somefin to calm you down. But it'll be medicine, not chemical manacles."

Hugh's father sprung to his feet with a speed Hugh wouldn't have thought possible in his drugged state. "I'ma get you summa _my _medicine."

Hugh glanced at the pills piled on the glass counter. "Not those?" He asked.

His father shook his head. "That's not medicine, that shit's poison. Don't mess with it or you'll have to take it until you die."

A few minutes later, Hugh's father came back into the room with two cups of tea. His dad's was already half empty. Hugh didn't quite remember drinking his tea, but standing on the glass counter with the mug hanging from one hand, the world held such agonizing detail that he'd never forget it.

"Bacteria are everywhere." Said his father, pupils wide enough to climb through before a journey through his sticky brain that might squish around his toes like the mud beside a stream and down a spinal cord, spinning on it like a firehouse pole. "Billions of them are probably on just your hand right now, see. Each skin cell is like a whole world for them to populate. But a bug just steps right over those skin cells, millions of times bigger. But even those are so small, probably a hundred skin mites on you right now. Each person is like a whole world to them. Then there's us, and we're really so small too. The world is like a whole world to us." Hugh's father's speech was broken by a minute-long fit of laughter, then he continued. "But there's a billion billion worlds, and this universe is like a whole world to them. But there are infinite small things below the bacteria, and there must be infinite things above the universe, see. See, we must be in only one universe, but there's plenty of them, and there are people in other universes that we'll never meet, and they aren't anything like us, see. Oh, but there's probably people who can see all of the universes, where the multiverse is their world, see. I bet they choose everything that happens. Even down to the bacteria, see."

See. The ocean see. Sea water, water you doing here? Hear heresy and hearsay from heretics - tics. Tourette's syndrome in insects in sects (quite opposed to heresy one might add much like one termite plus two termites especially in the situation of terminating might [incredible, a new word created and it must be written down, of course in order to write a word one must locate first a pen and then a pencil, but one may be able to rely on one's memory {one's memory seems incredibly powerful at this very moment although one doesn't know just why} or maybe it could be etched into this glass one stands upon] and speaking of the end of strength it is possible that one's mind is fading right at this very moment, of course it may always be doing so, but it seems as though one's mental faculties are being put to a use that is not entirely useful and this may be due to a certain substance that one has recently ingested [although one can't seem to recall what it was]) religious relics relish recreating really ridiculous renderings regarding retarded renditions of the past, which has passed.

There was a delicious flavor on Hugh's lips, and he smacked them loudly.

A strange smacking sound popped from Hugh's lips, and he jumped, disoriented, confused, and frightened. It came again, and Hugh hit the glass, hands over head.

Then his mug was full, and he noticed his feet feeling something sharp. His head skin felt a heavy weight, and the rest of his skin seemed to be sensing cool air, and this may have been indicative of the weather. His ears registered the sound of laughter - possibly. He would need to rely on his eyes in order to be sure. He looked out through his eyes to see his father buckled over, chest clutched, shaking with mirth. "Holy crap, Hugh." He said, wiping tears from his eyes. "I haven't had this much fun since... hell, since you lived here.

The weight on his head lifted, and Hugh saw a brown mallet fall to the ground before him. His father started laughing all over again, and Hugh seemed to be laughing as well. "Alright, alright." Said his father, trying to regain his composure. "It's been, like, half an hour, I think I'll take your first shot."

His father lifted his own mallet and hit a shiny red orb through a metal gate, where it bumped into a similar green ball. Hugh noticed himself balancing his mallet again on his head. "This may just be the best croquet I've ever played. Oh!" A smile crossed his father's face. "Do you want to get some SIN Soft Serve?"

Hallucinogens didn't mix with speeding, so they drove slow. Hills seemed incredibly steep, sometimes approaching 90 degree angles, and valleys often went far lower than the earth's crust should encompass. The car was never silent, for each thought manifested itself as a voice.

"Hey, where'd you hear all that stuff about the multiverse?" Asked his father in passing.

"What do you mean?" Hugh asked. Hadn't his father been the one to speak of other places?

"When you were standing on the coffee table, you were talking about multiple universes, how we were just a small part of many worlds. That there were deities that presided above all of them. Then you started mumbling a bunch of homophones and I couldn't understand anymore."

That was odd. Hugh distinctly remembered crawling into his father's eye, making a few brain angels, and hearing some nonsense about the universe.

Hugh was incredibly high.

His father pulled into SIN Soft Serve's square, but the buildings were already tarnished by time. Hugh's cherry red ride looked out of place pulling between two faded white lines in front of a closed ice-cream shop. They got out of the car, Hugh idling at his door as he heard his father's close, his father trying a locked nob, then banging on glass. He looked to Hugh with eyes downcast.

"I'm sorry, buddy." Said his father, voice suddenly very tired. "I guess I haven't been here since..."

Sobriety hit cold and sharp. Hugh had found in a matter of seconds that his past was dead. He'd missed it while sedated and monitored, led blindly through a series of meals and hallways and naps. There'd been nothing bright to follow the darkness. After all, unconsciousness was just as dark.

"We could get ice cream somewhere..." His father began, but trailed off before the "else." Neither of them wanted SIN Soft Serve for the ice cream. A dessert didn't matter. No _thing_ would make them care.

"Let's go home." Hugh said.

The next week Hugh's old friend, unconsciousness, pulled him through the depression. It turned out that anti-depressants didn't do jack shit for depression until he knocked himself out with them and all his problems vanished for twelve hours.

His father once expressed doubts. "Hey, uh... I've been picking my poisons for years now, and I might have gotten carried away letting you go down that same road. Maybe you could stick to tea for now, let me handle the hard stuff?"

Hugh had just taken two hits of ecstasy and stopped pouring with a hand half full of painkillers when his father spoke. "I've been on some harder stuff than this for seven years of severely different ability. Have some too. Take your mind off it."

Rolling. Hugh was sure the volume had blown at least three speakers, but counting wasn't in his toolset anymore.

Candy dropping? Absolutely. But he was hardly conscious of what drugs he was taking anymore, only that his father had not blinked in a long time and was methodically searching for bottles, bags, and cases and dropping their contents onto the glass table. A calm buzz overtook Hugh. He had some tea, and watched his body relax as his soul swam into consciousness.

Everything was sensory. Thought was irrelevant, outdated, and honestly obsolete. There was a sense of utter safety, because a golden angel watched his self from a distance, and in a less immediate plane, he was semi-conscious of his father napping beside him.

The angel guided him higher and higher into euphoria. In tall, grassy hills, Hugh watched an opulent mansion glitter in the daylight. That's where his body was, Hugh knew.

But his body didn't matter. What mattered was the forest that sprouted before his eyes. The grass that spread beneath his toes could hardly be described as blades; each one was curled and soft and forgiving. This had been his childhood, playing with friends by the sprawling forest.

As he looked to the forest, white columns rose from the grass, red stripes running up each until they reached a top curved back down to the earth. Hugh touched one. The tree bark was perfectly smooth, and his hand came away coated in unmistakable sugar.

Farther now.

The Euphoric Woods kept on, a balmy sun's rays passing through the candy shadowless. Giddy laughter echoed from a near distance, but Hugh didn't look back at the mansion. There was too much to see here.

Birds rained a kaleidoscope of feathers on the grass, flitting from canetop to canetop, singing with the golden-winged angel. Stepping on a feather sent tingles up that foot, and Hugh collected a bouquet until he heard something even more beautiful rushing in the distance.

Unbound by weight, Hugh sped to the rushing noise, where tinkling splashes threw up spray to sparkle in the light. Hugh reached down to feel the cool water on his fingertips. They left a rippling trail as he whipped through the air down the river, face ruddied by the cool breeze and scent of life. He slowed to a gentle halt at the sight of a deer lapping water from the stream. The animal's ears twitched, and Hugh saw the purity of the deer turn the water gold.

Hugh squished mud between his toes on his walk to the bank. The deer was unperturbed, and Hugh stroked its short fur until it leaned against his leg. But Hugh was already on, leaping nimbly towards a vivid assortment of colors in the distance.

From a thousand petals came a thousand subtle scents, each so slight that sniffing with mouth open and nose brushing pollen was not enough, and an overwhelming desire to taste the aroma rose in Hugh's mind. So he did. First a white flower, vanilla coming with every breath. Then a violet one, an unknown flavor set on his lips.

Hugh was vaguely aware of a physical jaw working as well.

Hot pink, neon green, incarnadine was Hugh's trail. The flowers grew on a path made solely for him, stretching out of the forest and carpeting a dirt road. Dust rose behind ungrounded feet, and the flowers left the ground as well, curving into a bridge to the sky.

He brushed fragile petals as he floated them by, and flower tendrils reached back to tickle his hands.

Sometimes, on harsh, polluted roads, a passer-by will see green growing from a crack in the street. Today the street cracked, flowers binding and reaching through a cloud to smash asphalt from below. Rock rained down, but dissipated into air before it could damage anything alive. Hugh soared up to find himself floating in a place he knew well.

Marshmallow clouds hanging in the sky, each soft and fluffy, none nearing the path of the sun. The bakery, windows gleaming, the scent of warm loaves rolling out. The candy store, bustling with children, friendly new vines climbing the facade. And there. On the corner. SIN Soft Serve.

Hugh's soles found the street and took him to the ice cream shop. It was as bright as it had ever been, lit mostly by an eternal, beaming sun. The huge windows showed many customers, all moving as though through molasses. But a couple of them, a father and his son, licked cones and laughed at ordinary speed. Hugh knocked the window to get their attention, but they didn't notice.

_...creating my masterpiece here._ Hugh read on his father's lips. He had to see him again.

"Dad!" He shouted, pounding the glass. "Dad, it's me!"

The pair of them seemed to hear. His father's head began to turn, and butterflies filled his stomach. He was back. Back to life. Life as it had been. Been better than anything else.

But then he felt his stomach lurch, and the window pulled away from him until he couldn't see his father's face anymore. Now his time was up, and his guardian angel was gesturing for him to go back home. He could return here later, but the world of candy was fading, and that distant mansion suddenly became visible again.

Back down the bridge, back through the forest, back up the plains, back in the door, back to the couch, back inside his still body. He tried to look back to the far ice cream shop to find his father's face one more time, but the trip ended, and his vision returned to the black of his eyelids.

They opened to gunk and the outline of his father's head. The room was dark; it seemed his dream had lied about the time of day. "Dad." He said, patting his father's shoulder and straining to stand up. Something crunched under his feet when he stood, and he looked down to see tens of candy wrappers littering the floor. It seemed that his dream hadn't lied about eating something sweet.

Blood rushed to his head. How long had he been lying in this state? "Dad." He said again, shaking his father's shoulder. He needed to see his face, even if it would be much hairier than that of the man in the ice cream shop. But his father wouldn't rouse.

"Dad, wake up." He said, turning his father over. No response. Maybe it was just his eyes adjusting to the light, but his father's face seemed to have a darker tint. "Hey, dad! Dad, wake up." He shook him with increasing urgency. No response, but a bottle of empty pills fell from the man's hand. Hugh only remembered flashes of his time under, but he recalled that bottle being full at some point.

"Dad, are you messing around?" He put his finger below his father's nose to detect breath. Yes, he was probably just playing... but no air.

He tried the neck. No pulse.

He tried screaming. No response.

Hugh breathed frantically into his father's mouth, trying and failing to maintain composure. His father's lungs expanded and collapsed, ten times in a row, but didn't continue when Hugh stopped.

He tried to press his father's chest to the beat of some song, but he couldn't remember which one, and he couldn't remember how strong he was, and then Hugh heard a crack and felt his hands sink lower than they were supposed to.

"No, no, no." Hugh whispered, backing away from a dead man and his broken ribs. "No, no, no, no no no no no."

His leg hit something and Hugh tripped backwards over a table, knocking it over and landing on shattering glass. "Nonononono." He said, crawling further away, not feeling the shards that dug into his hands. In fact, he couldn't feel much at all. That was what happened when he tried going off his medication.

That, and the looming presence that filled the entire room. It was dark again, and now there wasn't a father to protect him, or drugs, and the things had returned. With a vengeance.

All of them.

His mind raced, remembering dark things that chased him through dark woods. Remembering himself thinking his mother was dead in the apartment. Remembering all the evil things he'd ever dreamt of, all the evil things he'd ever imagined.

All. Of. Them.

Could he run? Where could he hope to go? No, if inside was dark, outside was darker. Could he kill himself? No, hell would have no morning to rescue him from the darkness. Could he take his medicine? There was no telling how that would mix with the drugs in his system.

There was only one option. Only one place, one man could rescue him from the darkness. Hugh searched the reddened glass shards for a black box. Found. He opened it up and removed a strip of blotter paper. There was no point in moderating now; he had to get the darkness _out. _

Six tabs of LSD folded onto his tongue. He had no ecstasy, but it didn't matter. He was already sinking down. The demons stilled, waiting by his body. A phone began to ring, a harsh, grating sound that took him deeper into the dark. His eyes glazed over, the mansion blurred, and he settled back down onto his bed of glass. The ring turned into an incessant buzz. All his senses faded, all the world drifted away.

His ears jarred from the noise. It came from the mansion, blaring white through abandoned ears. He covered them and looked across the plain. It was dark, now that he knew darkness was correct. Blades of grass stabbed his toes when he took a step, breaking off at the dirt and embedding in his feet as so many stinging pieces.

He couldn't float above the grass either. He was heavy now, bogged down by death. He tread carefully through grey blades, headed for the forest, shivering when he felt eyes on him. Not to worry, though. Delicious candy cane trees lay ahead.

Hugh's head was light by the time he reached the forest. This time, the trees were gnarled and dark, and the leaves' rustle birthed a slow hiss from every side. Hugh didn't want to go in anymore. He looked back on his path and saw a hundred red footprints, stark in the pale grass. They stretched toward a distant mansion, so far that he surely wouldn't make it back.

A wave of dizziness came over him. He was losing blood.

"I'm coming for you, dad." He whispered. But this was less his motivation than was the dark presence he felt behind. Hugh carried on, blundering through ancient pillars of oak, chattering his teeth at the caw of crows lurching from branch to branch, alongside something darker.

Hugh looked up for the reassuring sun, but found only the shadows of a thick canopy.

"_Hu-ugh..."_

No. He couldn't focus on the voices of the past, or he'd be pulled back in. He covered his ears and started running through the forest.

"_Hugh!"_

The voice cut right through his hands.

"No!" He shouted back, squeezing his eyes shut, still going at a sprint. His toe broke on a mossy stone, and Hugh slipped to the ground, head banging on the earth. A lazy brown frog croaked next to Hugh's still skull, pondering his giant eyes. Hugh was too sluggish to grab it.

"_If you run in the dark, you might crack your head."_

Dark dirt had turned to dark mud, and Hugh forced himself to his feet, streaked with it. Though the corners of his vision blurred, there was no time to lay still. He knew just where the whispers were coming from.

A brook babbled. Hugh knew just where he was. Squishy mud would soothe his bleeding feet. A soft deer would turn the stream gold. But when he took a step forward, the mud gripped his feet like tar, sucking and pulling him back from his father. He trudged on toward the stream.

As he got closer, Hugh heard a gurgling sound mix with the brook's babble. It was a strange, shrill noise, all forced and faltering and wet.

The river was ghostly in its transparency, so that Hugh could hardly see the water at all. He stepped in, and the cold bit at his feet. He waded with the current, frowned when a dead school rushed through his legs. He could see with perfect clarity how their scales did not shimmer, and was reminded just how little light there was.

"_You really are afraid of the dark, aren't you?"_

The dark called. And Hugh came, nearly stumbling over a still, gurgling form in his distraction. His foot kicked into black's side.

The boy looked up at him, grinning, face bruised, blood welling between cracks in his teeth and dripping off the lifted corners of his mouth, running down his chin to join the stream from his neck, running down his chest to join the stream of the river. Hugh saw the deer dead on the bank, skin peeled off, torn carefully into a long, thin strip, and needle-woven through the carcass. The clear of the river ended here, but the color was not gold.

"_You're dead meat, Hugh."_

When the boy opened his mouth to say it, the words bubbled through dark dark blood. Hugh did not like this gurgle. He did not like the boy's dark eyes. He did not like the way that the deer had been tortured before death.

"_You really... are afraid... really are... dark, aren't you?"_

"_...meat, Hugh... you're... dead... Hugh... you're..."_

It was in his desperate sprint from the body that Hugh felt his true disconnect from reality. It wasn't just the drugs, no sedatives or hallucinogen were creating the dissonance within him. He was not a part of the real world.

But he could hear the real world, certainly operating in a different dimension, seeming to operate at a different time. It was a pounding that came from the direction of the mansion, rumbling through the forest and shaking everything on its path to Hugh.

_POUND, _went a huge wooden collision, rumbling through physical ears.

The noise was given a few minutes to resound before another came, a _POUND _even greater than the first, making Hugh slip and fall once again. Hugh fled the pounding, but much as he scrambled to his feet and distanced himself from the mansion, it only got louder.

The scent hit before the sight. It was strong, a pungent one of choking decay. His breath stopped when he came to see it. The place was still shaking from the last _POUND_. It was a mockery of life, a sick joke told by something dark. These were not flowers. These were the sprouts of seeds from hell.

No time to stop. He raced through the field, searching for the bridge to the clouds. It would certainly be left. It would be beautiful, and tall, and promising, and it would lead him to his fa...

Like an earthquake: He felt it rattle the earth before it hit in full. Hugh threw himself to the ground, bracing against the resounding

_POUND_

that boiled the air into a great roar, overlain with a thousand groans. When Hugh stood, when he was able to stand, his knees wobbled to the same unsteady rhythm as the overturned dirt around him. But the faux flowers were not disturbed by the quake. Instead, they radiated a quiet aggression. And he was alone with them.

Eyes to the sky. Where was the sun? Hugh saw no particularly bright patch of cloud. But it had to be up there... right?

Something moved against his pant leg. By the time he looked down, the tendril had wrapped thrice around his ankle and was sliding higher by the second.

"Get off of me!" He shouted.

He was sick of this, tired of the dark, exhausted of the things that lay within it. The vine jerked sharply to the back in attempt to knock him down, but Hugh moved with it, spun, and stomped on the blotchy grey shoot. He twisted his heel, and the frail thing broke, snaking away from its lost appendage.

Then two vines, one around each wrist. He grabbed them and pulled, channeling years of fear into minutes of anger. They wouldn't break, and Hugh felt their thorns digging into his hand.

"_...wimp...come on, wimp...stay out..."_

Hugh heaved a tendril to his mouth and, pulling it taut, crushed it between his molars. The thorns speared tongue and roof even as vine wilted against his teeth, and he spat it out with a mouthful of blood. But before he could bite the other one, it dislocated his shoulder and dragged him through dark petals, flowers and vines following at his heels. He could taste blood and feel stinging cuts against his cheeks. Hugh closed his eyes against grey, oncoming blades and grabbed the vine with his other hand. But it was for naught. The earth erupted below him, a monster of dark flower, thorns, and vine taking him in its maw. Hugh filled the beast with blood and spit and fists, tearing and kicking and screaming at anything and everything around him.

He felt himself torn from the plant's mouth and whipped around by his neck, until two thick vines seized his legs and held him upside down. Blood rushed to his head, and he could hear it coming thick through his ears. A tendril pulled down his chin and bared his neck, then wrapped around it, trapping the blood in his face and neck and scalp. Another vine shackled his arms to his sides and squeezed on his ribs.

To feel something inside you - moving - is a feeling thousands of times worse than death. You have no power to rid the parasite, no ability to stop it from having its way. You can only clench your jaw and try not to scream as it carelessly slides among parts beyond vulnerable, taking away all of your power until it is all you can do not to plunge a blade into your skin and tear the thing away from your ribs and heart and lungs.

To feel it inside you is horrific. To hear it is worse.

Hugh had no knife to plunge, no way to take his own life, no recourse but to listen as the tendrils entered him. One in his nostril, mucus bubbling and popping while the rough vine scratched against his throat and made a spiral down the length of a lung. Then one up along his jaw and into his ear, and then he did scream, because he could feel it wriggling by the drum and throughout his entire head before it exited through a tear duct and entered again through the other. It flexed, pulsed, grew, and blood sprung forth to fill both eyes. Two red tears rolled up his forehead, wet some strands of hair, and dripped into the mouth of the plant below. Looking like a malicious anemone, thousands of hairlike tendrils wormed along his face and arms and feet, looking for cuts. Their each followed trails of blood into microscopic holes on the skin, widened the holes all they could, then bored through the flesh.

Worms. Near him. Surrounding him. Inside him.

_POUND_

And this one was so strong that it weakened the plant's grip on him. The million worms loosened and retracted, dripped with blood, and gathered to watch as Hugh fell down.

Just to be caught by the mouth of the plant. It swallowed him whole.

Down the gullet, self violated, mind maddened to a white, ear-bursting siren of anger, Hugh bit deeply into the thicket esophagus, praying in the dark that he'd sunk his teeth into an artery. (He was vaguely aware of a physical jaw grinding.) But no sap came gushing forth. The plant crumbled into his mouth like a winter blackened leaf, bitter, brittle, and dry. This thing was dead already.

_Angel._ He prayed, pleading hope in a hopeless plea. _Watcher, find me. Show me your wings. Take me to my father._

And, to an unexpected turn of his stomach, Hugh knew that a winged watcher had found him already.

Sometimes, on harsh, polluted roads, a passer-by will see green growing from a crack in the street. Probably less often, a passer-by will witness the tooth-like thorns of a giant plant rending through asphalt and spitting a bloodied boy onto the street.

A quiet street.

No wind.

The faint scent of tar.

Cold prickling flesh.

Rubble cutting into a cheek.

Cloying taste of blood.

No light coming through his eyelids. It must have been dark.

A rumbling noise, right next to his ear and yet a thousand miles away. _"SAAAAAH...," _began the call, slow and deep. Hugh pushed himself up and rubbed dirt from his eyes. A slow scan of the area, a deepening frown, but no tear.

He'd been here before. In this block, in his last dream. He knew from the last time: it was time to leave. That's what was supposed to happen. It was time to go home. But he felt darker things coming, and if honest, Hugh knew he didn't know how to get back home.

A minute or two passed with footsteps on pavement. The call changed, _"...EEEEEN..."_ accompanied by another _POUND_. But Hugh hardly felt their trembling power, detached from things so physical.

Put hand against glass. Avoid the broken part. Look for movement, find none. See dark. Feel... dark. Close eyes, again.

"_...PEEEEE..."_

His father was gone. Hugh couldn't even find him in his _fantasies, _goddammit. SIN Soft Serve was hollow, heartless. The shop would never see his father again. It would probably erode in quiet forevermore.

"_...DEEEEE..."_

There IT was, reflecting off the glass. There was no denying anymore - the angel was gone too. Something red darted in from behind, and out of instinct, Hugh snatched it from the air. It felt wet. The second piece skidded in from the same direction, rolling to a stop beside Hugh's left foot. He bent to pick it up, then dropped both pieces in disgust.

The frog by the river, all bloodied and torn.

Prickling cold turned to biting chill. The warped angel was as still as the dark air around IT, no doubt planning to do to Hugh what IT had done to the deer. Apathetic, Hugh trudged towards IT. He was unable to make out the dark angel's figure at the distance, but no visage could put fear in the void in his chest. He just wanted the thing dead.

The deep ringing of physical sounds faded away. Hugh's bare feet hurt against the asphalt, and he noticed that the blood was dried, grass cuts scabbed over. Yet his tread over ghostly grass had seemed so soon before. How had it healed so quickly?

No matter. Because there IT was, growing in his vision, as still as if IT had been painted over ITS dilapidated canvas. He could see two outstretched wings as he approached, much bigger than those of the angel, each one stretching so that they spanned the street's width, sickle-like ends curving to graze the pavement.

Whispers grew. He could hardly hear them at first, but they surrounded him the moment Hugh entered ITS radius.

"_Hugh..."_

"_Hugh, Hugh, Hugh..."_

"_HughHughHughHugh..."_

"_...HuGh, HuGH hUgh hugH HUGh..."_

"_HUGH"_

"_...HughHughHugh..."_

"...HUGH."

Hugh was very bloody, his life very spilt. Emotions had run him through, burned him out, leaving little more than ashes behind the skin. But there was a pile of rubble left on the street, and he stooped to pick up a fist sized piece. The dark angel was still there when he stood - Hugh'd half expected IT to disappear when he looked away.

The immediate-distant call returned. _"...OHHHHH..."_

In fact, maybe IT already had disappeared. The monstrous entity was so dark against ITS background that Hugh was becoming uncertain of ITS existence. "What do you want?" He shouted, faltering a bit in step. IT didn't respond.

"_...PENNNNN..."_

The whispers grew, some reassurance that he wasn't walking towards a shadow. But this wasn't exactly a relief. The whispers had begun to come in a pattern, a chant, taking on a sort of rhythm. And the rhythm they'd taken... Hugh knew it.

A thick fog began to collect around his bare feet. It felt to be a deadly smoke, a thousand painfully poisonous particles of ice. Hugh shivered again, wounds aching in the cold, and did his best not to breathe it in. "Where's my...," father, "angel?" He demanded. The dark thing stayed quiet, of course, but the whispers spoke for IT.

"_You're dead meat, Hugh, you're..."_

"_So much anger, Hugh. Why not let it go...?"_

"_...dead meat, Hugh, you're, dead, meat, Hugh..."_

"_...Fear, too. Don't worry, Hugh. It'll fade..."_

Yes, there was a rhythm here. But more than a pattern, more than a chant. It was almost like a...

"_...retarded meat, meat, meat, meat..."_

"_...You're a killer, Hugh. That boy. The frog, the deer... your father..."_

"_...Death just... follows you."_

A beat.

"_...UPPPPP." _Rattled the land, and Hugh fell to his knees to send frosty fog out in waves, and then he looked up, and when he looked up the dark angel had finally changed, because it was breathing the smoke and burning in the eyes and shifting in Hugh's vision. Hugh pulled back his arm and heaved the piece of rubble at the looming figure and then the rock smashed him in the face and poured him on the ground before it had made a quarter of the journey to Hugh's enemy.

There was a lot of blood.

Hugh put his hand where the rock had landed, felt a frightening indentation, so deep that it left him breathless for a moment. This was not normal. Through blurred vision could he see the dark angel's wings, so tattered and heavy as to be flightless, carving trenches into pavement as they drew together.

"_Senseless, unnecessary, human father..."_

"_IS DEAD"_

"_...poured his Life into his 'music', and finally found the pitcher of Life empty."_

"_Do you really want to mourn him? Do you really want to feel so sad..."_

"_SO WEAK"_

"_...so human?"_

And then the whispers became incomprehensible, and the beat they made was just a hollow imitation of one of his father's songs. The noises were made all too deep to hear, but he could feel them, and he could feel how IT mocked them, how it hated them, and how it hated Hugh, and how it hated.

He wiped the blood from his face and watched some dizzying drops fall to the ground.

A puff of smoke came from his nose, and he realized that he'd been breathing the black poison since he fell down. He thought he'd feel different, that it would weaken him, but it didn't. It felt like normal, just like it always felt when he was off his medication. But there was no point lying down, watching the blood pool around his face. Hugh stood before the red could congeal on his cheek, then wiped the wet from his head and flung it from his fingers. Then he picked his rubble back up, heading again towards a dark thing.

ITS wings were folded in, now, but still poised, tense, ready for something. There were so many holes in the wings, some large, and some small. Hugh'd hoped at least to tear one more. Hugh would cause the thing some pain before he died.

In the back of his mind he knew that he wasn't going to die. It was just a trip, all imaginary.

The dark angel didn't like that thought - oh yes, all the darker things knew his thoughts, the better to leave him wet-cheeked, hands over ears, curled up in a corner - and the rhythmic whispers pounded thicker and louder than the river of blood in his ears, screaming that Hugh was mortality and IT was NOT, that Hugh would CRUMPLE and FOLD and BREAK and after all his father was dead too from the vice of the darkness, and the roaring rhythm grew faster, and the distance between Hugh and the dark angel was closing, and the rhythm had reached its crescendo now, degrading into static, and the world slowed to a stop in anticipation of the

_SMASH._

And, through a sudden tinnitus, Hugh heard the whoosh of the wings, was knocked back. He saw them open, bared for only a moment to the earth. Asymmetry. Taut skin, conforming to thick cylinders of bone underneath. Bone with the proportions of a spider's leg, digits long and bent, none with the same number of joints, turned at unnatural angles, looking more broken than alive. Veins invisible, flattened against the leathery skin, presumably empty. Radiating an oppressive darkness. A reflection of - or maybe the cause of - Hugh's internal turmoil.

The dark angel soared forth, and the sight became much more immediate, tips now escaping the range of Hugh's vision. The body that came into view looked like it had been bathed in latex. And the molten latex had never dried, it twisted in agony around largely featureless legs, arms, torso, and head.

Hugh's opportunity came when the dark thing was feet away. He ducked and charged towards it, rock in hand, and leapt up to take the jagged piece through ITS skull. But the rock made no impact when Hugh swung it, and he found himself enveloped in the fog, blinded.

No, that could not be it. Hugh would not allow himself to be killed powerless and submissive, here in the darkness.

But it was his mind, his fantasy. He summoned up a great torch and let its fire burn white. He found the way out from the fog and he took it, then pulled the fire through himself so that it would burn from both hands and glow from his mouth and bring waves up from the asphalt nearby. He looked for the dark angel, didn't find it. All he saw was the massive hill of smoke he'd just escaped, plenty volume to conceal a dark thing. Hugh fired into the mist, bolts driving away their paths' smoke and lighting the darkness for brief moments before they burst on the ground on the other side. Still, though, he did not hit his target.

But then the smoke came to him, rushing over the fire in his torch and his hand and his heart to leave only a chill behind.

When the smoke dissipated, a black fire arose where the white had been. He tried to quench it, but though it was his mind, the fire was not his to dismiss.

A cold hand on his head. Hugh felt dizzy, and his knees buckled beneath him. Hugh saw an enormous shadow before him, winged and black. He was lowered to a kneel, life draining up into the hand of a darker thing. Fingers dripped down his face, clenched still his head, and turned it to the sky. Hugh squeezed his eyes closed and struggled, yanking ineffectually at the firm hand, surrounded by the beat and the cold and the smoke.

He didn't give up his struggle until it had gone on for minutes to no avail. His closed eyelids opened, and he looked up at the sky for what may have been the last time. It occurred to him to look for the marshmallow clouds once lit by a golden sun. They'd probably been destroyed too... but look! They were still there! He smiled a bit. The deer may be dead, his childhood forest may be spoiled, but the heavens were sacred. There were some things that the darkness couldn't take.

But then the world shook, harder than a _POUND, _harder than the _SMASH, _harder than anything, and a puffy white piece of the sky tumbled down to earth. A massive, pristine marshmallow dirtied itself on oil covered street. The cloud of dust and rubble it raised clung to the white surface, turning it grey.

Hugh returned to his struggle, beating savagely at the cold hand.

"_Use your fire."_ IT hissed.

"It's not _my_ fire." Hugh replied.

The hand squeezed, and blood spurted from all his old wounds, and all the light in him started to rush out through his skull, eyes rolling back, arms going limp, muscles forced relaxed. The only thing that didn't leave him was the black fire.

"You can't make me use it." Hugh sputtered. "This is my min-"

"_This mind," _said the darkness, _"belongs to me."_

And even as Hugh swore to himself never to use the tools of this darkness, he released a burst of black fire that spread in all directions, carved a hole in the asphalt beneath him, and blew him from ITS grip. Darker things could never smile, but Hugh thought that IT must have an evil smile inside IT, because Hugh had given in to ITS will and was still going to die.

He wondered whether any of it really mattered to begin with.

But the dark angel, grip lost, was returning for ITS kill. Hugh's fists spat the black fire at IT over and over without stopping. At first, the dark angel merely absorbed the fire, but when IT tired of the game, IT blasted him across the block to be knocked against an ice cream shop.

Now all the fire was out, and that dark angel glided towards him, and his only recourse was to flee. Crawling on elbows and feet, back from the dark angel, Hugh noticed a strange octagonal sign bearing an exclamation mark. The dark angel had no knowledge of human symbols, and had built this world with nonsense aplenty. The sign's image blurred and bent when the darkness stepped in front of it.

Now the dark angel pinned him down with invisible impenetrable immaculate shackles. Hugh looked into ITS face, looked boldly and unabashedly into the face of death. What may have been a chin lowered beneath the twitching surface, stretching the head to an impossible length. A sinister glow grew bright enough to seep through the latex, and the dark angel fell to a horizontal position where IT gripped Hugh's neck with one hand and the ground with the other. The glow of hellfire was strong now; it hurt Hugh's eyes, and he could feel it as well.

These were the last moments of his life, he thought. He looked for his father, scanned for a white light, clutched tightly to the hope that the soft hand of some heaven would finally beckon. But no hand came, and no call arose. He looked back to the dark angel, anyways obscured features further silhouetted by the massive shadow IT cast. The light in ITS mouth was blinding now, and as Hugh felt himself wither in the grasp of darker things, he reached up to squeeze at the source in a final burst of hatred. Yes, that was it. Let the darkness close away the edges of sight, let feelings get duller by the second, let the blinding light burn at his hand. His thumb punctured the bright flesh, and his fingers dug into the head until something in it crunched beneath. Keep squeezing, keep fading, keep drifting away. Hugh began to think that he might kill the darkness this way, and his inner hatred grinned that both of them could soon be destroyed.

But then there was a hideous sucking feeling at his stomach. He was being pulled into the pavement now, back pressing into the ground, ground giving way. Then the dark angel and the sign and the fog and the buildings all drifted up, and Hugh broke through the pavement, and now he was falling, and falling, and falling, then pulling back through a field of dead flowers, then whipped passed a red stream, then spun past thousands of ominous trees, then pulled back over acres of sharp, dead grass until he was back to the house, back through the shattered door, back into the body of the boy named Hugh.

SIN Acres had known there was a problem after two phone calls had gone unanswered, left to ring for minutes in the house. The SINPD had known there was an emergency when they saw some blood under the shutter and when their loudest _POUND _brought nobody to the door. The boy's eyes were half open now, and with pupils rolled back, he looked at the paramedics through the whites of his eyes. A Walkman player was clutched beneath his chest, rhythm warped when heard through his body. After a minute of inactivity while he was being assessed, one EMT was nearly screaming, the boy's hand having shot up and gripped the man's flashlight and hand and broken the glass with his thumb. A fellow EMT, after a desperate struggle, managed to pull away the boy's hand. The boy was disentangled and loaded into the ambulance, where numerous glass shards were removed from his feet and hands.

Hugh awoke, surrounded by white. It was a good color to see after such endless blackness.

"You're awake." Said someone, voice low. For a moment, a tingle ran through his stomach as he thought it was his father. But when his head turned, he saw a middle-aged man with a detective badge on his uniform and bags under his eyes. Hugh looked away, closed his eyes again. This was a hospital, but maybe if he tried hard enough, he could die here.

"I'm sorry for what happened to you." Said the detective, looking at Hugh sincerely. "Years of institutionalization, years of sedation... and to come home, and find your father no better. The man had succumbed to grit, let darker things enter his soul. I think you're a gentle youth, Hugh, so I imagine you tried to be patient with him, even through the drugs he exposed you to. But he pushed you over the edge, didn't he? Did you kill him because he told you how your mother died?"

Hugh was young, and quite possibly insane. But he was far from stupid. The detective thought he'd killed his father because they'd found the man dead with broken ribs. But why would Hugh kill his father because of how his mother died? It wasn't much of a stretch to infer.

His father was a murderer... he hadn't known that. But of course, it was true. It wasn't enough for the darker things to kill his body, they had to kill his memory as well, the spirit. Hugh had loved his father. But in that moment, Hugh no longer wished to see him smiling through the window of that ice cream shop. He released his hold on the final rock, the one that had kept him still and afloat in the tide of hopelessness.

When Hugh didn't respond, the man continued. "As much as I may sympathize with you, you've displayed an inability to be peaceful. You even broke an EMT's hand. You're probably going to be sent back to the institution you came from, unless you help us to help you. Do you have any statement to make? Anything we got wrong, anything to defend yourself?"

Hugh said nothing. There was an IV hooked into his arm, and knew his medicine was coming through it. The room was bright, he had company, and his medicine was back. There were no darker things to be seen.

Back to SIN Acres, Facility for the Severely Differently Abled. Clinical, clean, careful. Hugh wouldn't find any pain here. He wouldn't find any pleasure, either.

The thick administrator smiled over her thick desk. Hugh used to count her chins, but now he stared through her fat as though she were not there, and there was nothing behind her but space.

"The world's latest murderer, working hard to keep his title. I told you you'd tire of him before the ride home had ended. I was wrong, though. You managed to hold off for a few full days." She said.

Hugh was escorted back to his room. The walls were white, the bedsheets were flame resistant. There was rubber on each corner, there were bars on the window. It was no wonder his lamp didn't work. Hugh took it from his bedside table, disassembled it, and pulled a Walkman from the stand.

Music, again...

Now

...Again, music. It was really the only thing left. Hugh always closed the warehouse doors before he played. This time they swung carelessly, drew the attention of some soldiers when they banged on the walls.

Through the dark, up to the equipment. Hugh used to see monsters in the dark. These days he was the only monster to be seen.

Label time-worn, artist forgotten. A cassette slid into its player. Old technology, Hugh knew, but he'd never thought to convert the sentimental piece. The music began slow and deep, keys and strings spilling discordant notes. If only he could remember who'd written it. His eyes closed. If he could have mustered up a tear, he would have. Instead, he clutched the edge of the turntable and bent over it with shaking arms.

Darkness was hard to stomach. Hugh's god, friend, cure was truly his demon, enemy, disease. IT was evil, which was a hard thing to know. But now Hugh was evil too, despite Sheriff Jay's assurances to the contrary. _Sheriff Jay,_ Hugh thought. _The only truly good man I know anymore._ Jay, with his talk of goodness, reminded Hugh of someone important. Someone he'd thought was gone, gone, long dead. Only, his memories were all a jumbled mess, and no amount of importance could give him back the man's name.

Upon opening his eyes, Hugh saw several of his units scattered about the warehouse. There were no groups, no pairs of men - Hugh's soldiers tended to keep to themselves - but they were together in sharing the increasingly harmonic melody.

Hugh knew the song well. The upcoming notes were jarring and dark. Meaningful to the composer, important in the context of the music, but not the mood for Hugh. He made them bright, and then brighter and brighter and brighter. He smiled. When he looked up to his sparse audience, he found them to be smiling with him. And they were not so sparse anymore.

No conscious thought really went into it, just a sudden impulse to which Hugh was entirely subject. "I feel evil." He said through the microphone. Unprompted as it was, the statement still didn't disturb Hugh's audience. In fact, some of them nodded their assent.

He played with the beat, feeling absent, less a thinking entity than an acting one. The music became more complex, and a subconscious directive began to phase out the sentimental sounds in favor of something bigger.

"I don't care." Said Hugh. The music was enormous now, and the crowd in the warehouse had grown. The night sky let little light inside, so people drew their own flashlights, candles, lighters.

"I don't care about the past." The music was a movement now, and it moved everyone present. These men and women were the wounded of the world. Each one carried darkness, and to them, Hugh's struggle seemed as ordinary as being awake. So they whooped and danced and transcended their darkness. Hours passed, the night waned, and there was just one song left to play.

"I don't care about the past. The dead are dead, our mistakes were mistaken. Nothing but lost memories, for me. But this one..." Hugh said, returning control to the ancient cassette. "This one goes out to those I remember."

It seemed that there was a balance between the emotionless pleasure of possession and the rampant regret of freedom. Over the next few weeks, Hugh feigned support for The Auditor, worked morally for the Sheriff, and spent his nights in the warehouse with his people. They were all connected when the music played, and they began to see him as an emotional leader as well as a military one. No one anticipated anything with more excitement than the nights at the club, and Hugh's following easily attained a cult status. He painted his face white every day, and when his people saw it, they printed their own designs, faces colored each night with words and pictures meaningful to them. Behind the mask of face paint, they all could be who they wanted to be. Judgement was left outside, left to shiver alongside the dark.

Club M, it was called. M for memories, M for anyone who wanted joy in them. Cheshyre played, for Club M was for everybody. And in defiance of the sky, eternally overcast, East Complex made its own light.


	12. The Retaking

A/N: Screw you, chronology, for making my chapters hard to synchronize. Slowing me down. Feel like GRRM.

A/N cont'd: Well, at least I'm writing. I want to thank all my readers for bearing with me and my poor pacing. The reviews have been exceptional, but to all of you who are confused, I invite you to try to solve the story's mysteries - maddening as they may be, everything has a reason. Feel free to post your theories. Now, this chapter has a few MA paragraphs that I'm uploading to Deviant Art. They contain some plot elements, so be sure to follow the link when you get there. (And let me know if it somehow ends up broken. You'd need to find Chapter 12 - The Retaking in wafflepudding1's account.) Thanks again for your support, and I hope you stay for the mysteries to come.

Until now, the Sheriff had thought that the best Scotch in the world could be bought with mere money. Not so. Mr. A was a generous boss. Mr. A was a powerful boss. Mr. A's connections had provided more luxury than even the opulent Sheriff was accustomed to, and the Sheriff could only wonder at the power his new boss must hold. So Sheriff Jay reclined in an Arabian leather chair, sipped the best Scotch in the world, and pondered whether he'd have to kill Mr. A to get his empire.

'Know thine enemy', spoke the proverb. When every man may be your enemy, the only proper course is to know everything. The secretary had called Mr. A enigmatic. Sheriff Jay had had to stifle a laugh: Soon, he'd know everything there was to know about the man.

The Sheriff read the note again.

_Find and destroy any recording devices, visual and auditory, that may be in any of your facilities. Instruct Agency soldiers neither to report nor share suspicious activity._

_Make the secretary aware of your location at all hours, working or otherwise._

_Mr. A_

Truly an exercise in brevity. It was the most incredible thing Sheriff Jay had ever read.

Just to begin with, the note had been alone, taped to the coffee table, just waiting for Sheriff Jay to come in. The secretary had said that Mr. A was not expecting Sheriff Jay to take this offer, yet it seemed more that the Sheriff's attendance had been orchestrated.

Then, the instructions to "find and destroy any recording devices" and to "instruct Agency soldiers neither to report nor share suspicious activity." The ordinary man would make good note that Mr. A did not want Agency activities recorded, and that those actions must be criminal or secretive, and the ordinary man would deserve a pat on the back and a gold star, for he would be right. But the Sheriff already knew that the Agency was a hotbed of criminal activity, and had been since its inception. What he was more concerned with was that Mr. A was asking him to implement these policies _now,_ after the entrepreneur had (hypothetically) owned the Agency for years. Fiction was stranger than fact, the Sheriff knew. Maybe Mr. A truly was a long-time owner of the Agency. Maybe the fact that he didn't know the secretary's name, required Sheriff Jay to "find" the recording devices, called units 'soldiers', and couldn't name the three Agency facilities was due to inattention. But Sheriff Jay suspected that it was something less retarded than that.

Those involved in the Agency had begun disappearing, had said the secretary. From that, the Sheriff took that a new owner had taken control of the Agency. Sheriff Jay had been secretly arranged, by the owner, to replace those who had disappeared. This was a hostile takeover if the Sheriff had ever seen one, and said hostilities may have involved actual homicide. By the final sentence of the note, it was clear that the owner desired a profound level of control. Not a word of this news was troubling to the Sheriff. What it was: very revealing.

In one note, Mr. A had revealed just how dishonest he was.

In one note, Mr. A had revealed his strenuously concealed, genuine relationship with the Agency.

In one note, Mr. A had revealed about half of what the Sheriff probably would have had to search for.

Mr. A had, in one note, revealed that he was an oblivious. Naive. And Sheriff Jay would use this to learn everything about Mr. A, then overcome him.

The first order of business was to conceal all the cameras and recording devices. After all, who was the owner hiding the recordings from if not for the Sheriff? It wasn't as though the Agency made a habit of broadcasting its recordings to the public. Sheriff Jay would keep informed of anything and everything that his boss was hiding.

Sheriff Jay called the secretary (whose name was Jackie, as it had taken all of two seconds to determine) and asked the hierarchy of his new employees. That done, he ordered building maintenance to remove cameras from North and North complex between the hours of 400 and 600 every day until they were all gone. This would show his boss that he was being secretive, since the Agency officially opened at 600 hours. However, given that the maintenance crew would be leaving with carts of cameras when every other employee was arriving, all Agency units and authorities would know that the cameras were gone. The cameras would be taken to the warehouse for scrap metal.

Then the Sheriff called a private contractor. The contractor's crew would come in between the hours of 200 and 330, take the scrap cameras from the warehouse, and reinstall them much more secretly in the same exact positions.

A few days later, Mr. A visited the Sheriff's office. Sheriff Jay took him for an exceptionally neat person, and had had the top floor, where his office resided, cleared of all personnel but for his secretary. The marble and windows were polished to an absurd extent. He hoped to make an impression.

"I notice that the hours between 400 and 600 have been very productive for the Agency." Said the probably homicidal entrepreneur.

"You don't need to speak in code, the cameras are gone." And the Sheriff believed it when he said it. If you couldn't persuade yourself, how could you persuade anyone else?

His boss bared his teeth in what seemed to be an attempt at a smile. This man... he was eccentric, Jackie had been right about that. But it almost seemed like something more.

"SIN is a mess." Said Mr. A. The man did not look at Sheriff Jay when he said it, but frowned and squinted at the gleaming window. The Sheriff liked the sun, but it looked like he'd be getting curtains installed.

"In terms of litter?" Prodded the Sheriff.

"In terms of trash." His boss replied. "You still have connections with the SINPD, am I correct?" The Sheriff nodded. "I need the city cleaner. Quieter. More orderly. I need a curfew."

Litigation. Officially, far beyond the supposed powers of the Agency's owner. Unofficially, fuck that, SIN's government was entirely bought and sold. The SINPD had been enforcing any laws they wanted to for the past ever.

"I assume you want these new rules enforced rigidly."

"Yes." Said Mr. A.

"Would you like cameras to monitor civilians?" The Sheriff asked.

"Yes." Mr. A hesitated, then frowned. "No. No cameras anywhere."

Okay. Mr. A was hiding something that extended well past the boundaries of the Agency.

The Sheriff nodded. "I'll have it done right away."

His boss looked away from the window now, fixing Sheriff Jay with a direct look. It became long, but not uncomfortably so. Sheriff Jay returned the stare with all the impassive comfort of a good employee, or, so he persuaded himself. "You're a good employee, Sheriff Jay. You don't question me. You seem effective."

"You're an owner worth being effective for."

Mr. A bared his teeth again in that strange approximation of a smile, stood, and shook the Sheriff's hand. When the door closed, the Sheriff picked up his phone.

"Jackie?" He said.

"Yes, Mr. Jay?"

"Sheriff."

"Sheriff Jay." She amended.

"I'm going to need some new curtains for my office."

The regulations had been fun to impose. Not because Sheriff Jay particularly enjoyed rules, but because in imposing them, Sheriff Jay learned further the extent of the Agency's power. He could do anything with it.

Raising taxes was a no-brainer. People bought Agency (or any variety of) goods, then paid the taxes... to the Agency. The Sheriff thought his boss might appreciate a secret police, so he gathered some whiny North Complex vets and a few boxes of donuts and sent them out to patrol for rule-breaking. The curfew was twelve, all mail was checked, all speech was censored. It was stratocracy at its finest. And no one could complain about the police state, because if they did, whiny North Complex vets would kick in their door and shoot them to death and then probably eat some donuts because that's what cops do.

But now his day's work was done, and it was time for something else.

She was blushing, touching her hair, and looking everywhere but at Sheriff Jay. "How would you even know that?" She asked, skeptical, laugh bubbling around her fingers.

"Because he told me. Mysterious Mr. A is a eunuch. He was fixed when he was little." Sheriff Jay replied.

"I don't think I believe you." She said.

"Believe it or not, he keeps a glass jar with -" The elevator dinged. Floor B1. "Here we are. Now, Jackie..." He looked at her face, flushed, eyes downcast, as the doors opened. With great bravery, her eyes met his. Blue. "You know, Jackie, you're very beautiful."

She tried to say something in reply, but the murmur made her words incoherent. Verbal language wasn't the important kind, though, as she leaned in closer to the Sheriff, the space between their waists closing. She'd looked away again, so he swept the hair from her face and turned it up towards his.

"I like you." He said, and they forgot whatever errand the Sheriff had invented.

When they kissed, Sheriff Jay tasted a girl unaccustomed to kissing. She worked long hours for the Agency, he'd find later, and it didn't leave any time for relationships. First, her muscles were tense, tight. Then, Sheriff Jay made them loose, relaxed. First, her hands were awkward and unsure. Then, they grasped tightly his face, wandering down the day's stubble and touching his hard chest.

"Jay..." She breathed.

A/N: MA content omitted, alter address as needed and follow link to DeviantArt. (www).(wafflepudding1).(deviantart) (dot com) (/art/Chapter-12-The-Retaking-545555450)

Hugh Tricks. Tricky. Who was this man, problematic enough to be addressed by the Sheriff himself, yet important enough not to be terminated? My, the text had been vague, but the Sheriff Jay thought of something he may as well try.

He stood, using just an arm to carry the girl with him. He set her down. "I should shower." He said.

"Maybe... if you wanted, I could... maybe..." She began, but her speech faded away. She was too shy to ask.

"You should go upstairs. I'll need the day's schedule ready when I get there." Said the Sheriff.

Her eyes flicked down, again. "Okay."

When the door closed behind her, the Sheriff took his face in his hands. "Jay." He said through them, voice muffled. "Sheriff... Jay." He slapped his cheeks a few times, and, all better, went to the shower.

His suit was even crisper that usual. What if Mr. A walked in to a less than perfect sight? The Sheriff could not hope to kill the man without gaining his confidence.

"Jackie." He said, striding into the lobby of the top floor.

"Good morning, sir." She said. She met his eyes this time. They seemed hastily dried.

_She looks unprofessional. Unfocused. Displeasing to a controlling entrepreneur. Is a discussion in order?_ Asked a pragmatic voice.

_Her eyes. I did that to them._ Said another.

"Do I have the schedule?" He asked.

"It's in your email, sir." She replied.

He paused, trying to think of anything else he needed to ask her. Or tell her. No, he had what he needed. He nodded, and entered his office with sticky note in hand.

The first order of business was the recruitment to East Complex. The weight of the request hadn't occurred to him when he first read the note, him being otherwise occupied, but now all his rational thought paused in its force. The East Complex was destroyed, contaminated, full of some malevolent demons that had wreaked an unknowable havoc inside. Sheriff knew this firsthand, as he'd heard Officer Eila's crew traversing it in real time. For Mr. A to suggest that it be repopulated... the man must have a deeper understanding of the matter than the Sheriff would have assumed. But, that could be explored later. Now, all the Sheriff needed to do was recruit. Recruitment was, in fact, the easiest of all his tasks, because his travails in the underground industry had revealed inner city SIN to be brimming with fighters and devoid of jobs. He'd need to update Agency advertisements and move them to that area.

The Sheriff asked Jackie and found that the Agency did not have any graphical designers on retainer. He looked through freelancers for the best savings.

Several concept orders submitted, he settled into his next problem: how to find Unit James of North Complex.

Unit James of North Complex! That was a name that the Sheriff knew. A fascinating man, and an integral factor in his failed plan to regain control of the SINPD. From the Sheriff's recollection, Unit James had suffered a mental break in the East Complex, and then died in a swarm of whatever forces inhabited it. The Sheriff never had fully understood the mechanisms of those forces, nor what had happened at that complex, but Unit James's escape wasn't too great a surprise in light of such chaos.

It was yet unclear what made Unit James so important to Mr. A. Quite possibly, Mr. A's understanding of the events at East Complex was as incomplete as the Sheriff's. Sheriff Jay remembered a chemical produced that, suspended in gas mask filters, protected Agency units from the smoke enveloping the complex. It had been expensive to produce, for sure. But maybe Mr. A's hostile takeover had brought enough capital to the Agency to chemically neutralize the complex.

There was no telling for sure. All the Sheriff could do was contemplate the man. Christoff was an obvious pseudonym. Ex-Unit James claimed to be of Nevadan descent, but there were no census records of anyone bearing that name, no family members to be found. Searching after the man's past would prove fruitless. The Sheriff could use only what he already knew.

"Has there been a memorial for the recently lost units?" Sheriff Jay asked through the phone.

"No, Sheriff. The Agency budget didn't allow for it." Jackie replied.

"Thank you." Said the Sheriff.

He found a picture of Unit Kara Harding of North Complex, sent it as well to his new freelance artists. She'd be the face of the memorial, and her picture would be everywhere, soon. It would be a public venue. No security, as that might scare off James. The posters would be up by the end of the day to ensure that James would see them before he went, in case he planned to leave SIN.

Well, that was all that could be done for now. Later, the Sheriff might...

_Is that someone in the lobby?_ He heard rustling, the secretary speaking. He hurriedly threw closed the curtains in case it was Mr. A, then sat imperially at his desk.

"Unit Hugh Tricks, here to see you." Jackie said.

"Send him in."

After a moment, the man thrust open the door and stalked disdainfully into the room. Sheriff Jay was stricken by the man's clownish makeup; his hair was green, his face white. Tricky slumped into a chair, staring at the Sheriff with disinterested eyes. This was not a sharp and analytical man... exactly what made him of such value to Mr. A?

"Hello, Tricky." Said the Sheriff.

"Hey Brass." Tricky responded. _What?_ Thought the Sheriff, shocked. _With his petulant demeanor, I would never have suspected him impudent! What a complex appearance this man has made!_

"How're you doing today, Tricky?" Asked the Sheriff. He attempted to believe that the man was an employee to respect. He failed, and was forced to force it. "I'm sure you have something interesting to tell me. You're my most interesting employee."

The clown-faced man stared at the curtains behind him, light glinting off his pupils. God... the Sheriff had closed the curtains in anticipation of the man who wanted the light.

"You don't want to be here. Why not?" The Sheriff asked.

Tricky laughed. "This is my punishment, Sheriff. I was thinking the wrong thoughts and nearly being disobedient. Now I haven't heard any orders or guidance in weeks, except to accept my demotion to North Complex janitor."

Hmm... janitor. Code, maybe? Code for hit-man?

The Sheriff assured him that he would have good work here.

"Yes, a janitor's work. Killing the dissident to wipe up your messes." Tricky said.

_Nailed it. _In any case, a hit-man dangerous enough to require this special attention would be a valuable asset. And, as Tricky seemed already to have a distrust for his work, the Sheriff might as well attempt to gain his trust and subvert Mr. A. It had been a half-formed plan when he thought of it at the apartment, but it was beginning to take shape.

The Sheriff pulled a bottle of Valium from his drawer. It rattled against other bottles. Yes, Sheriff Jay had his vices.

"Is that Valium?" Asked the clown-man when Sheriff Jay set it on the table, attitude suddenly improved.

This was clearly not a man who enjoyed taking orders. The chaos evident merely in the man's face paint was enough to label him, the dissident-killer, a dissident - even if his dissidence was not realized.

"I don't know why you want guidance, much less orders. You look like you could take on any challenge you could assign yourself, no need for a puppeteer." Said the Sheriff.

The clown requested the bottle.

"I doubt any boss of yours would be okay with you popping pills." Said the Sheriff, gulping another Scotch to wash the pill's taste from his mouth. He continued. "I imagine that would interfere in your taking orders."

"I need ITS orders!" Tricky shouted. Now, the Sheriff had not provoked such a response. The man's argument was plainly more internal than external.

What was 'IT', by the way?

"Then you don't need pills." Said the Sheriff, prodding further the man's internal tumult. "In any case, I can tell that you're tired of killing the 'dissident', as you say." Or as this IT says. And as Sheriff Jay would advocate, were not Tricky so violently opposed to it. Instead, the Sheriff had a new plan. "I have a more constructive job for you up at the East Complex." It was time to get Tricky out from under Mr. A's thumb. It was time to give him control. "There's a lot of damage there. A lot of cleanup to do. I want you to take charge of repopulating the complex and managing that branch. Let you be in charge for once." Said the Sheriff. "Of course, if you'd rather wash your hands of this demotion, it's your choice to walk out that door. You're in control."

The Sheriff watched the clown wrestle with himself. It went on for a minute or so.

"What would I be in charge of at the East Complex?" Tricky finally asked.

"Anything. Everything. What did... IT... put you in charge of?" Asked the Sheriff. He may as well find out what IT was.

"Mr. A, not IT." Oh. "He put me in charge of killing the imperfect and dissident, making telephone calls, and recruiting." Sheriff Jay hesitated for a moment. Calling the boss 'IT'... this went further than your dysfunctional workplace. The Sheriff asked Tricky who he'd recruited; he might have more than one hit-man to steal.

"I never learned any names." Tricky said. "I just followed orders."

"Mr. A's orders?" Asked the Sheriff. Just to clarify that IT was Mr. A.

"I don't know what I'm allowed to tell you." Tricky said. Hmm... the Sheriff had been surprised at how loose Tricky's tongue initially was, but it seemed to have tightened. Damage control was in order.

"I'm sure anything you aren't allowed to say would have been made clear to you. Besides, even if you said something out of line, who would know? It's just us in here." Said the Sheriff. Well, just them, and the cameras.

"He'd know." Tricky said immediately. "He always knows, whether it's where I am or what I'm doing or what I'm thinking, IT..." Tricky stopped, closed his mouth, and looked back to the window. He may as well. The Sheriff had everything he needed.

"It's no problem, Tricky." Said the Sheriff. "You don't have to say anything more than you want to. In any case, there's a car outside waiting to take you to East Complex. I've taken the liberty of appointing you a personal assistant," another North Complex veteran, it would be, "until you get your feet under you. So, what do you say? Do you want East Complex?"

Happy, free, the clown was his now. He shook the Sheriff's hand with joint-buckling strength, then headed out the door.

After the clown left, one of his phrases stayed behind. Tricky's job had been "perfecting the imperfect," and Mr. A, or IT, had assigned it to him. Maybe the entrepreneur styled himself a philosophical leader, a revolutionary, a god. And how Mr. A could always see Tricky, whether it was where he was, what he was doing, or what he was thinking? Probably a delusion. Tricky looked the delusional sort. Still, though, it aroused curiosity.

That could be investigated later. For now, his day's problems were addressed. And it wasn't yet noon! When everything had slipped away from him at the station, it had been devastating. So when he'd taken this job, he'd sworn to take it back. But this time, he'd take back even more.

He spent the remainder of the day reestablishing old drug connections. Back in the days of the police, he'd dominated the heroin sector. It had been the most profitable drug. But now? Now, he thought he'd take over the entire underground. Every cartel, every black market, every gang would belong to him. Opposition would be shot. And when he established enough manpower, he'd do to Daddy Flow what Daddy Flow had done to the Sheriff's house.

On his way back to the office, that line of thinking reminded him of Tommygun.

_No,_ thought the Sheriff. _That man no longer deserves a nickname._

Thomas had been the traitor, the one to sabotage the budget, the one to break his credibility, the one to steal his police station. And Thomas would be killed, in due time. But the Sheriff didn't understand how Thomas could have been involved in all the other events formerly orchestrated against him. What about the weapons shipment stolen from North Complex? What about Ellie's possession of a North gun? What about her black eyes, what about the strange events at East?

Sheriff Jay had never borne witness to any unearthly things, but his daddy had recalled to him some dark encounters. Surely, in Nevada, there were beings brought forth from the aether. Sheriff Jay would need to dig for them.

He got in the elevator. The flyers promoting the funeral would be sent out by now. A minute, a ding, a walk onto the lobby. Jackie was packing her things, still looking cheerless. There was always an energy, a joy coming off of her, but it had only taken a minute to make it wink out. The Sheriff thought that she would have recovered by now. Moved on.

Her brow creased when she saw him enter, and she packed more hurriedly, hoping to hasten the encounter.

_This is your fault._ Said that voice.

Sheriff Jay didn't care. She was a secretary. She could be replaced.

"Jackie." He said, touching her arm just as she was about to leave.

This was ridiculous. Why get further entrenched in this drama? What idiocy could compel him to talk to this woman? He had no bond, emotional or otherwise, with this employee.

She turned away so that he couldn't see the water wetting her lashes.

"Last night, when I said you were beautiful..." He began. But there was no reason he could continue. Nothing. He could say, "Never mind," send her off, and stay collected. He could walk away. He didn't need to say this, there was no reason to say this, he SHOULD NOT say this, "...I meant it."

Well, fuck, now it _was _too late. Moments of softness were womanly and unnecessary. That's what his daddy had taught him, and wrong as his daddy often was, the world affirmed that the lesson had been pragmatic.

"Something happened to me recently. Before the Agency took me in. I suppose it has affected the way I connect with people." Good God. If there was one, it would boom with a mocking laughter at this absurd scene.

He turned her, and so he could see the tears on her cheeks. "What happened to you?" She asked.

_Ellie._

Maybe he could salvage this. He could shut her out and turn her away permanently. But there was absolutely no reason, _no reason at all,_ to disclose his private life. "Someone I was close to died." He said. And though the Sheriff was not a crying man, he felt the same emotions that ran mascara down her face pulling, heaving in his chest.

No he didn't. _Goddammit, Jay. You see one nice brunette, and your entire brain goes out the fucking window. Pull yourself together. End this game._

She reached timidly up to touch his cheek. He closed his eyes and held her hand against it. "I'm sorry." She said, and he knew that in that moment, they were connected.

_Fine, then. If you want to fuck her so badly, fuck her. But then end it. This soft moment has gone on long enough._

He kissed her, and took her to his room, and fell into bed next to her. They forgot to have sex, and instead fell asleep clothed, over the covers, noses, arms, and bodies pressed together.

Little light came through the window. But it was morning regardless, and still, his disappointment in himself hadn't been relieved. He told himself that he felt nothing for this girl, then spent thirty minutes looking at her closed eyes.

"Good morning." She said, when those eyes finally opened.

"Morning." He said. "What do you want for breakfast?"

She looked over at the clock. "Oh, no." She said. "We're not going to have time for breakfast. Work starts in -"

"Twelve minutes, I know. But we have some work to take care of down here." He said.

A smile began to spread. "A lot of papers in your study. It would be faster just to do them here, not carry them all the way up."

The Sheriff stroked her hair, eyes growing playful. "Now you're thinking like a professional."

This time, she didn't need to ask if they could shower together. Sheriff Jay took them there without a word. When the floor was slick and droplets trickled down the mirror, when the water had run cold and the blood had run hot, Sheriff Jay wrapped a towel around his waist. He made them eggs, thinking all the while that it was not his job, but her job to cook.

When the table was set, Jackie walked into the kitchen. "It smells good." She said.

They sat across from each other, eggs and bacon on their plates. The coffee was freshly brewed, the beans freshly roasted. Sheriff Jay added vodka to his mug, but the secretary declined. It was chilly if you weren't fully dry, and Jackie took her own mug in two hands to still the shivering, and drank slowly, with eyes closed. Sheriff Jay looked at her while she couldn't see. Wet, long hair stuck together and clung against her face. He wanted to brush them away, tuck them behind her ear. Gently, unsurely, he reached up to do just so. But her eyes began to open, and he quickly brought his hand down to a newspaper laying on the counter.

Sheriff Jay was rough and hard. He was not a man for soft touches and whispered words.

"Hm." He said, opening to a random article, lifting up the paper. "Civil unrest in inner city SIN... underclass outraged at proposed legislation..."

"Oh my God!" Gasped Jackie, mug dropping to shatter on the floor. The Sheriff looked up. Fresh brewed coffee seeped over tile grout.

"It's just a bit of civil unrest, Jackie, not a big -"

"Not that." The girl said. The Sheriff turned the newspaper to the front page to see what she was looking at.

Fire. So vivid that the Sheriff thought the page alight, then that it was an image of a burning building. Upon reading, he found that it was merely a graffiti depiction of fire, drawn in exquisite detail on the back of a police station. A lone vandal, shrouded in cloth, goggles, and bags, admired his work for what seemed to be the moment before flight.

_Two nights ago, vandalism struck in Nevada Woods. In what some are calling an act of terror, flames were spray painted onto the back of one SINPD police station. While lower class areas of SIN have been struggling with vandalism for years, this is the first reported incident of graffiti culture spreading to an upper-class neighborhood. While the culprit has yet to be identified, police are installing security cameras around all major buildings to prevent future damage._

_Despite the high risk to the vandal, no police saw - only one bystander bore witness to the crime. They did not call the police, but did capture the stunning image above, just before the perpetrator left._

"_There's a fire station near the police station." Said the witness to whom photo credit goes. "If the vandal were trying to shock, he probably would have sprayed it there. No, I think that whoever it was was trying to send a message."_

The Sheriff could see why Jackie had been surprised. The art had been alarming, the image troubling. Sheriff Jay found that he admired it.

"Let me read." Said Jackie, somewhat anxiously. He turned the paper so she could see the front page and he could finish the article about civil unrest. It was an opinion piece, citing several inner city citizens dissatisfied with the Sheriff's proposed legislation. Of course, they didn't know it was proposed by the Sheriff. What they did know of was the tight relationship between the Agency and the police; they would immediately assume the the laws had Agency support. And that, dammit, would be bad for recruitment.

Sheriff Jay had an interesting idea. He could hardly remove the established regulations - they were just too beneficial for the Agency - but he could pull the Agency's support. The Agency would run a puppet police force consisting of solely Agency members, the same going for litigators, while audibly opposing those regulations, even hinting at rebellion. The campaign would be a battle cry of individuality, of freedom, casting the police as the villains and the Agency as the hero. Anti-authoritarian lower class would flock to the Agency, bringing true passion with them.

Just another idea to send in to the freelancers. "You know anything about art?" Asked the Sheriff.

Jackie smiled and shook her head. "Can't say I do. This woman, on the other hand..." She said, referring to the article.

"Woman? Most vandals are male." Said the Sheriff. She shot him a glance, expression inscrutable, then went back to eating. A minute passed. She started to giggle in her way, hand over mouth. "What?" Smiled the Sheriff.

"The mug is still broken."

They laughed, and eventually finished breakfast. They cleaned up and headed to the top.

Sheriff Jay entered his office late. Some Agency paperwork was piled on his desk, so he trudged through it, imagining things more exciting.

A call came in from Unit Tricky. It said that East Complex was clear of whatever had poisoned it, and cleanup was already being done with Tricky and his group of North Complex men. All good signs. Tricky had a strange request, though.

"When you've recruited your units, and we've cleared out the temporary ones from North Complex, could you send me only the ones who are depressed or addicted?"

"Absolutely." Responded the Sheriff. "May I ask why?"

"So I'll have company."

And so it was. Concept art came through Sheriff Jay's laptop later that day, and his eyebrows raised when he saw it. To the left, the upper figure of a strong Agency unit. His eyes were haunted, his jaw was strong, and like most inner city residents, he was black. With eyes narrowed, brown irises pointed to the left of the picture, where a gaunt man with a baton stood behind him, eyes cast in shadow. First draft, the drawing was labeled.

The vivid nature of the drawing reminded him of fire, spray painted against the SINPD.

Another candidate had sent in artwork. It was far too blunt. It depicted a snarling police officer with... no, Sheriff Jay didn't care to inspect further. The work was rudimentary, poor compared to the first. He fired his other freelancers, keeping only the artist of 'First draft' aboard.

That done, the Sheriff turned his final hours of work to more interesting things. He dipped into Agency funds to buy his first dozen keys, alongside assorted hallucinogenics, cocaine, ecstasy, and marijuana. The SINPD had done an annoyingly good job shutting down the meth industry, so instead of buying the crystal, Sheriff Jay ordered it shipped directly from evidence.

He hired ten dealers from the street, each one pushing at near wholesale prices, obliterating any competition. He ordered his secret police to tail them and ensure that the real police stayed away.

That done, it was time for the Sheriff to head home. He shed his tiresome burden, the first step from his office making him free of his work. Jackie was looking at something on her desk, her face a study in concentration.

"Jackie." Said the Sheriff, admiring the look of her face in intense focus.

She started and looked up, then relaxed when she saw his face. "Sheriff." She breathed.

"What are you doing?" He asked.

"Just... closing up shop." She said, organizing things on her desk, standing up with a bag over her shoulder and a light-leaded pencil in one hand.

"Is that a sketching pencil?" Asked the Sheriff.

"We're out of ordinary ones." She replied.

The Sheriff made a mental note; he'd have to get more pencils.

"Are you ready?" He asked, extending a hand. She took it, and they walked to the elevator. Sheriff Jay hit B1, and the secretary hit Floor One. The Sheriff's eyebrows furrowed. "Floor One? You're not coming with me?"

She looked at his shoes, a faint grin on her face. "I can't keep staying over." She said.

"Why not?"

"Sheriff, I don't have clothes here. This is my third day in this outfit. And I have things to do at home."

"Then I'll come to your place."

She smiled and shook her head. "I don't really have people over."

"Why? Is it a mess? I have some experience with that."

She smiled wider. "You're the first guy to ask to come to my apartment. But as much as I'd like to have you, I just can't." She kissed his lips. "I'll see you tomorrow, Sheriff."

The elevator buzzed open, and she went through the doors.

"Jay." He said. But she'd already walked away. He wondered what she kept at home that was such a secret. His mind would tend to analyze her, to determine what she knew, if he could use it. But the Sheriff found that today, his mind was quiet.

His bed felt empty that night. He took opiates, he tried to lay still. By the time 200 hours glowed red on his bedside table, the Sheriff reached for his phone. He looked first for Ellie, and then remembered that she was shot to death and burned in a fire. No, none of the estranged Daddy Flow's escorts would do. And the Sheriff didn't know other pimps.

Sheriff Jay scrolled down his contacts, looking for Jackie. He'd ask if she was awake. Maybe she would be, and she could comfort him from afar. Maybe she wouldn't, and he'd await her reply until his eyes closed of their own accord. Then he'd wake up with her words on his screen.

But in scrolling, he realized that he didn't even have the girl's number.

Alright. There were the opiates. Sheriff Jay fell asleep, pillow clutched in his arms.

He awoke on the day of the memorial. He showered by himself, didn't feel it. He made a fresh pot of fresh coffee, didn't taste it. He took the elevator to Floor One, got in his car, then drove off to a quiet courtyard. Pulling up to cast iron fence and short grass, sky dimming quickly, he frowned. The crowd was large. Many had died at East Complex, and there was no shortage of guests. Unit James would be difficult to find. Luckily, though there was no security, some of his new recruits were in plainclothes, watching for the man.

He stepped from his car and walked through the crowd. He didn't see James. It was possible that the man wouldn't show up... that would be a disappointment. This entire affair was for him.

"Excuse me." Said the Sheriff into the microphone. The crowd began to turn. "Please."

Sheriff Jay had a piece of paper folded in his jacket pocket. He took it out, hand shaking ever so slightly, making the paper rustle. He spread it in front of him, and looked at it carefully. "Today," he said, voice unsure, "we come together to honor the memory of our Agency men and women lost at East Complex." His Adam's apple rose and fell, and look, he'd gained the sympathy of the audience. He looked back to his paper, then up. "The Agency only chose the hardest workers, so we know... we know how good they were. They all did good work, and none of them deserved what they got." His eyes flicked down and up. "By now, the complex has been sterilized, so, they..."

His eyes closed, and Sheriff Jay sighed. He balled up the paper and dropped it next to the podium.

People liked cliche - but the paper had been blank. His voice firmed. His face hardened. Time to fuck their parietals. "My name is Sheriff Jay. I am Agency Director. I'm not going to pretend that I had a connection with every one of our lost men, of your lost ones. But I can tell you that every one of my loved ones are involved in the Agency in some way. And when the East Complex went down..."

He turned away, jaw clenched, then turned back. "Today, I know about half the people I knew last month."

Sheriff had heard it said that the best lies contained bits of truth. It wasn't hard to theorize why. It made them more verifiable, it gave them a general ring of accuracy, it made them easier to tell. But this audience would never verify the truth, and Sheriff Jay had been faking accuracy for years now. Sympathetic gasps resounded from the audience.

"I want to tell you all a story." And the audience wanted to hear it. "It's about a young man. No one knew where he came from, but he was a true warrior. Requested by name to deal with terrorism, militant groups, and more, he and his team were unstoppable. They went into East Complex, and they found something terrible. Something dark. It was the thing that turned our transmission to static, it was the thing that penetrated a state of the art perimeter, it was the thing that killed," Sheriff Jay pointed to the vast rows and columns of pictures, "these men. But this young man, this warrior, this valiant hero, do you know what he did? As I guided his team on radio, he fought through a sea of darkness, black as pitch.

"Wading slowly through smoke dense enough to carpet the floor, stroking furiously against the rising tide of insanity, plunging bullet-first through bloody depths, the group prevailed for two weeks." The Sheriff had adopted an intense rhythm, and the audience was enraptured. Except for a movement in the audience. The crowd was beginning to form and close around a path to the exit.

"Well... some of them did." Said the Sheriff. "The further they travelled, the more of them were crushed under the pressure. I sent in a rescue team, but they died as well." He allowed for a deep silence to accumulate, then continued. "But the young man would not let the cold take him. James was his name. Through all the darkness, while his fellow men succumbed to the murky waters, Unit James _drained the damn ocean._ Like I said, the East Complex is once again habitable. It's him that we have to thank for that."

Sheriff Jay pointed to James's picture. "Unit James is dead now. I don't know if there are any afterlives, or heavens, or Higher Places - my faith has been tested to an absurd extent. But many of our men and women were like James. And if these people, these _warriors,_ see some heaven, they'll be the fiercest ones there, I'll tell you that much!" The applause had started at 'there'. Now was the time to whip them into a fervor. "And if there's not, and they spent their lives fighting evil on this planet, then they were the fiercest ones here! Who can say they did not live great lives? They may have been short, but they were full! Every day a battle, every day a challenge! And yes, they died, but yes, they came out the victors!" He shouted the last, and now the crowd was shouting too. The women cried with joy, the men reveled in their own fierce memories of fighting at the Agency. And a lone, bearded man slunk from the back. The Sheriff's eyes narrowed.

"I'm going to get you, Unit James." He whispered, stepping away from the microphone.

"Sir." Said one of the plainclothes units after the service. "We saw Unit James exiting from the courtyard. Should we tail him?"

Sheriff Jay shook his head, having seen already a rough black beard and a distinctive pendant. "No." Said the Sheriff. "I already know his next destination."

It was Saturday. The earth had gone from pale to dark during the service, and even darker clouds approached from the distant sky. Sheriff Jay checked his watch. Time to head back.

Back at the office, a beautiful secretary sat at her desk. "Good morning, Sheriff Jay."

"Good morning." He replied.

"I hear you gave a rousing speech at the memorial. We have forty applications since the service ended!"

"Where does that put us since I joined?" He asked.

"83 new recruits." She said.

"Go ahead and make sure East Complex is at least that well staffed, then. You know Tricky's request?" Said the Sheriff.

"The depressed and addicted."

Sheriff Jay nodded. She went back to her work, and he entered his office. It was only a few minutes before the Sheriff got the call.

"Mr. A is here to see you." Said the telephone.

"Send him in." He replied.

The door opened, then closed behind the entrepreneur without his touching it. The Sheriff greeted his boss, and the man walked behind his desk.

The curtains had been left open today. After all, hardly any light came through the window. Mr. A admired the land, and Sheriff Jay decided to do the same. "I like this kind of weather." He said, aware of his boss's distaste for light. "No need for sunscreen."

Mr. A asked about recruits, and Sheriff Jay gave an impressive answer. He asked about the East Complex, and Sheriff Jay said it was clean."Has Tricky been causing any problems?" Mr. A asked.

_Maybe for you._ Like he would Unit James, the Sheriff had gotten to Tricky first. They both possessed incredible talents, and both would make valuable allies against Mr. A. "Not in the slightest." Said the Sheriff, not hiding his smirk.

Mr. A asked whether there'd been progress in locating James, and Sheriff Jay deviated from the norm: "No."

It was a fine answer for the man, as Sheriff Jay had done everything else correctly. Mr. A asked whether the Sheriff was enjoying his new position, and the Sheriff responded politely. Sheriff Jay detected a great deal of insincerity in the man's words, as though Mr. A was just a suit that the powerful entrepreneur put on. Sheriff Jay supposed that no one was truly who they said they were.

"Is there anything that can be done to make your work more enjoyable?" Asked Mr. A.

"I have every resource I could ask for. No. You've been more than accommodating."

"Good." Said entrepreneur. He peered deeper out the window, seeming truly fascinated in the earth beneath. "However, I believe there is another resource that would benefit us both."

The Sheriff was listening.

"Weather such as this does not come every day. But it can, and it should. There is a machine to be built, one that can affect the sky, the earth, and the seas." Said Mr. A.

What, a device to alter reality? Absolute bullshit. Still, playing this man's game was the optimal way to get close. "Where could such a machine be obtained?" He asked.

"The primary component, the one to alter reality, has already been obtained. It is already functional on a small scale. But in order to operate, it needs a thorough comprehension of the object it is acting on. To make it operate at full capacity, all of Earth needs to be contained in the machine's mind."

Mind...

"Mind?" The Sheriff inquired.

"The mind of the machine."

Mind?

The CPU, maybe?

"As in, the Central Processing Unit?" Sheriff Jay asked.

"Yes." Mr. A replied.

Alright. So, the man didn't understand computers. An unusual trait for such a successful businessman, but no stranger than discussion of reality alteration. The Sheriff explained that machines could not hold all the information of the Earth in their memory.

Suddenly, the room seemed colder.

If Mr. A believed he had some sort of reality-altering machine, it could be good to see it. _After all,_ thought the Sheriff, looking out to roiling clouds, _is it not possible that Mr. A caused this weather?_

The Sheriff could tell that Mr. A was not one to enjoy obstacles. He mustered up some of the morning's rousing eloquence. "With the level of control your primary component offers us, we may be able to deal with this issue directly. The Agency should have no need to sidestep obstacles. Under my guidance, we'll run right through them."

Roused, the entrepreneur left. An engineer could run through this obstacle, so it need not be the Sheriff's focus. He looked at the clouds again. He never had seen weather quite like this. But, strangely, the sky reminded him of a black smoke that had risen from East Complex.

The twilit day wore on. He received the second draft of the concept art for recruitment. It was brilliant. He commissioned several more pieces from the artist, and ended up admiring the piece until his shift's end.

He stepped from his office. When she saw him, Jackie stopped him and beckoned him to the desk. "I just saw this on SIN Social." She said. She angled the desktop toward him, and he read the article.

"Nearly two-hundred dead in an apparent mass murder yesterday evening. Police identified several assailants, all dead in a suicide pact." Read the Sheriff aloud. His brow furrowed, and he read on in silence. The entire block had been closed down. There were no eyewitnesses to be found. The Sheriff would need to speak to the police chief about this, have his own forensic team go in. Troublingly, the police chief would be Deputy Thomas... Sheriff Thomas, now. Sheriff Jay's upper lip crinkled in distaste. His place had been taken, and it was upsetting, to say the least. But Sheriff Jay would need to examine the scene, for he hypothesized that the murders were a result of James's mental break.

_In other news, _read the article, _meteorologists are having trouble placing the black overcast that has settled over the SIN sky. Leading experts state..._ The Sheriff looked up from the desktop.

"That's no good." He said. Face blank, Jackie nodded in agreement. The Sheriff chuckled inside; she'd been much more concerned over the graffiti. "I'll need to inspect the area... I'll need you to get me a few forensic experts."

Her eyes widened. "You're going there now?" She asked, receiving a nod. "Can I come with you?"

An odd request. Sheriff Jay would have assumed that death would make her queasy, as it did most people. But any excuse to spend time with her would do. They left for the site, two experts in tow.

A 2004 Corvette pulled to a stop beside yellow police tape. An officer signaled for them to head away, but Sheriff Jay stepped out impervious. Sheriff Jay recognized the officer from his old force, and recognition appeared in the man's eyes as well.

"Sheriff...! I mean, Mr. Jay. You can't be here." Said the officer.

"It's still Sheriff." Said the Sheriff. "I've brought a couple of forensic specialists to check it out. What do you know so far?" He asked.

"Not much, but... Sheriff... or, Mr. Jay, I'll need to ask Sheriff Thomas if this is okay. I don't think he'll approve." Said the officer.

"What Thomas approves of is irrelevant." The Sheriff ducked under the police tape, and his entourage did the same. The officer looked unsure, and he spoke into his radio as they walked past.

It was a gruesome scene, and it stretched for nearly a full block. Bodies lined the pavement, dead drivers had crashed cars into buildings, and one steel building had a wall torn off and thrown to the street.

The victims had been labeled separately from the supposed 'assailants', and the Sheriff walked among them, identifying identical slits traveling from their wrists to inner elbows.

"This blood is not normal." Said an analyst, stooped over an assailant's body. "It's extremely dark, and quite fluid for necrotic cells."

"Take a sample." Said the Sheriff distantly. He looked to the sky, then back to the bodies. _Alright. There's no question anymore._ He thought. _This is inhuman._

"Sir." Said that analyst. "I'm sure there's some rational explanation for this, but honestly, I can't think of it. There's plenty here to analyze, and my partner and I will take care of it tonight, but I tell you genuinely that I've never seen anything like this."

The Sheriff was not surprised. He thanked the analysts for their work, and they went off with many samples. Sheriff Jay contemplated the scene.

"Jay!" Someone shouted. The Sheriff turned, and saw Thomas stomping toward him. "What in the fuck are you doing here?"

"You should be thanking me, Tommygun." The Sheriff said genially. "I'm having the place analyzed as we speak. Sorry to hear about the vandalism, by the way. Can't believe it happened with officers in the station."

Thomas gave a short laugh. "We don't need your analysis. What, you think the SINPD can't analyze with you gone? Christ! I finally get rid of you, and you can't even stay away."

"It wasn't just you. I know you had help." Said the Sheriff.

"Yeah, I did. But it sure as hell wasn't Officer Eila. You know what I was upset about when I first decided to end your term? You were a jerk. You hung up on me without saying goodbye, you were manipulative, and you were corrupt. But... oh, God... you thought one of us was dissenting, and you _fucking killed her._ Just to send a message." Thomas took his head in his hands, turning away. "Just... to send... a message." Thomas sniffed deeply, then turned back. "And what's with this new legislation we're enforcing? I have orders to send confiscated drug material over to the Agency. I know you did this. You've always had your hand in the government. Goddammit, I thought at least things like this would stop when you lost your post."

"When I lost my post." Said Sheriff Jay, not so much as feigning a smile anymore. "Yes, about that."

Sheriff Jay punched Sheriff Thomas to the pavement, then stood over him with a hateful glare. "My post was never lost... _Sheriff... _Thomas. This post? This entire department? It's still mine. As is the Agency. I expect you to understand that very well, _Sheriff,_ because otherwise, you're going to be fired," into several times with your own sidearm, the Sheriff didn't finish.

"You can't do this." Said Thomas from the ground.

"I can." Sheriff Jay replied. "And you won't fight it, because despite the fact that you once got the nerve up to rebel, you still know just how unstoppable I am. After all, you served under me for years."

Thomas rested back his head, sighed. "Dammit, Jay, I guess you're right. I finally get pissed enough to do something, and you end up even stronger than before. So, yes. You've won. But I just want you to know, Jay, that you're not alone in the world. The people that you hurt? They're real. They have families, they have friends. They're _people. _And I don't know if you even care."

Thomas stood, gave him a piercing look, and walked away. "Goodbye, Sheriff." He said.

It was time to go. The Sheriff looked around for Jackie, and saw her walking along the sidewalk, mouth agape. "Jackie!" He called, and she turned to him, a starry look in her eye.

"I would love to go, but..." She turned a complete circle, memorizing the scene. "...I really, really, really need to do something. But I promise, I'll see you tomorrow."

Sheriff Jay nodded. "Don't you live around here?" He asked.

"Well, close, but up in Nevada woods." She said. Where the graffiti was sprayed. Walking distance.

"Goodbye, Sheriff." She said, and jogged off.

Sheriff Jay frowned. It was 0030 hours. Restless, he wandered the desolate block. There was nothing but the dead to keep him company.

"At least you can sleep." He said to the bodies. None of them heard.

"Goddamn deputy." He growled. "Trying to make me feel guilty for maintaining order?" Sheriff Jay remembered something Mr. A had said. The entrepreneur wanted the city cleaner, quieter, more orderly. He wanted a curfew. It seemed that every one of Mr. A's actions had been in pursuit of order, a uniformity to instill. What did this say of the Sheriff?

"Well, you've got a curfew here, boss. A permanent one."

The Sheriff needed to keep occupied. If ever he woke during the small hours of the night, he'd close his eyes and address the issues inevitably surrounding him. He was pragmatic, and productive, and could solve those issues. But right now, his mind was clouded as the sky above.

It was 0100 hours. If the night kept crawling along at this rate, it might not end.

He wondered if there'd been any truth to his speech earlier. Had the North Complex heroes truly saved the complex, or were their lives wasted on some unbreakable force of nature? In truth, the Sheriff still didn't know what had been inside of there. Maybe he could ask James.

0101 hours. Truly, the time would not flee. Sheriff Jay asked himself what he wanted to do. More than anything, he found, he wanted to be with Jackie. He wanted to know what secrets she was hiding, what wonders in her mind put the sparkle in her eye. And he wanted to forget the pit that had opened up in his stomach, the one that was increasingly sucking away his carefully crafted carelessness.

"Steel yourself, soldier." He quoted aloud. "For there are troubled times ahead, if not for your body, then for your mind." His father had told him that. And although Sheriff Jay faced prospects of dominating Nevada, inventing new technologies, and upheaving supernatural forces, these were troubled times.

He didn't check his watch again. No time would have passed anyway, and the gold links were, in honesty, stolen from the populace.

"I may as well leave, now." He said to his people. He never noticed, in the dark, how black were the eyes of those slain.

No work today. Sheriff Jay waited outside the church, feeling much more confident in the admittedly diluted morning light. His thoughts were objective, his smirk had returned. He'd gone here often as a child. The pastor's words had always been vibrant, but that was not so important now. Now, what mattered in the early morning service were the distinctive crosses given to the congregation and the remarkably black beard Sheriff Jay had seen the pastor grow so long ago. He'd done a bit of research and found that the man's son, James, had run away at around fourteen years old. This would be the church's first open Sunday since that son escaped from East Complex.

The service had started some time ago, but James wasn't yet there. The Sheriff was beginning to worry that the man wouldn't show, but lo, a thick black beard appeared from around the corner. James looked nondescript, much as at the funeral, and Sheriff Jay neared the church doors as the son went inside.

And what an entrance it must have been, for the doors flew open without James's touching them, and closed but for Sheriff Jay's hand making a crack in the door.

James gave an address impressive as the Sheriff's own, with much talk of fighting evil and many references to God's furious might. Peering in, Sheriff Jay saw the audience shocked, as James levitated several feet above the stage and seemed to cast light over the entire room.

After the service, Sheriff Jay awaited James on his path back to wherever he'd come from. When James saw him on the pavement, he stopped. "Sheriff Jay." He said.

"James." Replied the Sheriff. "You gave quite the speech in there."

"What do you want from me?" James asked.

"I heard you say that you and God's might would unify against the forces of evil. It was a touching line. I despise evil as much as you do, and I may know more than you of certain... demons."

James's eyes darkened. "You know nothing of demons, Sheriff. I spent countless days among them. And you? You're a liar if you say you oppose the forces of evil. We all saw your drugs."

The Sheriff shook his head. "The heroin. I know. The Agency was corrupt, and their chemical production far exceeded what was legal. I went far too long enduring it, but I'm proud to say that such production has been put to a halt. I run the Agency now, and everyone responsible for its lacking ethics has been removed."

"Really?" Asked James, peering at the Sheriff with an uncomfortable intensity. The Sheriff nodded. "Fine, then." Said James. "What do you know about these evil forces?"

They walked, and the Sheriff told him with honesty much of the unnatural occurrences he'd borne witness to. He was much less honest about his reactions to these events.

"Black blood." James said. "You've been plagued with the same evils as I. In the East Complex, the enemy was black smoke. To breathe it was not to die, but to lose your humanity. Your blood would become black, and your mind would come under control of the enemy. When we fought at East Complex, we were fighting scientists, soldiers, each other. Anyone who had breathed the smoke. And the sky, now?" James looked up, then down. "It does not bode well."

"You gained certain powers in the complex." Said the Sheriff.

"Those were a gift from God. Otherwise, I never would have been able to escape and fight this war." The Sheriff nodded. They spoke some more, and then the primary question arose.

"So, what is the plan?" Asked James.

The plan was to earn the trust of Units James and Tricky. That done, the plan was to learn what there was to know about the reality-altering machine. If it was fruitful, Sheriff Jay would take it, kill Mr. A, and assume control. Otherwise, he'd leave it, kill Mr. A, and assume control. "We wait." Said the Sheriff. "I'm still gathering information. I promise you that soon enough, we will be rid of this darkness."

Damn. Somehow, after a night without sleep, the last line made his stomach twist. He was becoming tired of words without meaning. But this was not good. Sheriff Jay had seldom dealt with disgust, and he found that he could not persuade himself anymore.

But he'd still managed to persuade James, and the self-proclaimed savior nodded in appreciation.

"I need to go." Said quickly the Sheriff. He needed to leave, couldn't deal with this anymore. The Sheriff remembered that Jackie would be coming over, and made a quick trip to the store.

"Is there something I can help you with?" Asked the short brown girl, eyebrows raised, barely containing her laughter.

"Yeah..." Said Sheriff Jay, scanning the women's section. "I need a wardrobe."

Jackie'd said she had nothing to wear at the Sheriff's place. That was about to change. Only having a rough idea of her measurements, it was an exhausting chore, and a couple hours passed before he had everything he thought he needed. Then back to Base, then down to B1.

Sheriff Jay, arms full of bags, found Jackie in the elevator. "Hey, Sheriff." She said.

"Hey."

"What's all that for?" She asked.

"Ah, nothing much. I just went shopping. Got some stuff for me. Actually, I got a few things for you, too." He said.

"Aw, you didn't have to do that." She smiled.

"I wanted you to have something to wear tomorrow."

She put her head against his chest. "I know you've had to make some hard decisions, Sheriff - I know a lot of what goes on here. I guess I don't know how it all affects you. You don't show much. But in case you don't think you are, I want you to know that you're very thoughtful, and for me, at least, you've done nothing but make happiness."

He held her against him, his own eyes closing. It was a nice sentiment. But the Sheriff doubted that anyone else felt that way.

_The people that you hurt? They're real. They have families, they have friends. They're people. And I don't know if you even care._

That's what Thomas had said to him last night. Of course, Unit Tricky admired the Sheriff. So did James. But their relationships were based on lies, lies that the Sheriff told every day, every second. At least he hadn't lied much to Jackie.

She looked up at him, and he noticed deep bags under her eyes, like she'd been up all night. But unlike the Sheriff, she radiated a certain energy, as though her sleepless night had been caused by something happy instead of insomnia.

_Ding, _and they were at B1. The Sheriff unloaded about 30 of her outfits into the closet. When he finished, he looked back to Jackie to find her blushing, sitting on the couch, looking at the floor. "What is it?" He asked.

"Um." She said, biting her lip. "I was thinking, since we're here, maybe we could do some of that stuff, you know, that we did the other night."

"What stuff?" Asked the Sheriff, goading her.

"Um, you know." She buried her face in her hands.

"Go ahead. Say it."

"Um." She couldn't say it!

"Sleep? Is that what you mean? I'm not really tired." He said.

She laughed, running her hands back through her hair, then looked him in the eye. "Sex." She whispered.

"Mex? You want to order out?"

"No, Sheriff..." She cleared her throat. "Sex." She said.

The Sheriff mock gasped. "Sex!?" He exclaimed. She fell to pieces. "Why, it isn't even eleven yet! How immoral."

"You are... so... mean." She managed, gasping for air.

"Well, it's nighttime somewhere." He said, and she threw her arms around his neck.

After their nooner, they did go for lunch. The Sheriff didn't go out to eat often, as he had far too much to do. But when he ate, he ate well. Jackie wasn't used to the calibre of restaurant they visited, and admonished him over the price. "It's really not a big deal, Jackie." He said. "Consider it the Agency's treat."

They discussed light nothings as they ate. Eventually, the conversation shifted to the last night's voyage. "I've never seen anything like it." She said.

"So much destruction." He replied.

"200 dead. They're calling it the 200 Massacre, you know." Said Jackie.

"I don't believe what the police are saying about it. It seemed too unusual for an ordinary homicide." Sheriff Jay added.

"There was nothing ordinary about it. It was incredible." She said.

"I spoke to a man who plans to fight the killers with the wrath of God." Said the Sheriff.

"Really?" She asked. "I don't believe any god would let this happen."

Sheriff Jay wondered if she was right. He hadn't thought of any gods for a couple decades now, so he wouldn't really know.

"In any case, I have something to show you." He said, reaching into his jacket pocket. "You know how I've been acquiring some art to recruit for the Agency?" He asked.

"Yes."

"Well, here's one of the drafts." He pulled it from his pocket and handed it to her. "Isn't it something?"

Her lips pressed tight, eyebrows crinkled when she saw it. After a moment of examination, "It's okay." She said.

"What's wrong with it?" Asked the Sheriff.

She looked at it a moment longer, then set it before him. "The light never looks quite right. All the shadows are too black, nothing really reflects like it should. What the eye is drawn doesn't seem considered, the positioning's so erratic. And... neither people really capture the image of being alive. They look propped up." She went on. "Beside that, it's so cynical. Everyone is the enemy, nothing is safe. You see that shoe, right off the edge? Belongs to someone lying on the concrete. Whether he's alive or dead, you can decide that based on the rest of the drawing. I bet this artist has never painted anything light in her life. Never could."

Sheriff Jay gave her his best calculating look, because he couldn't seem truly to calculate what'd just happened. She'd seen quite a bit in that drawing. He studied it a bit more, then looked back up to her. Her face was serious. "I don't know. I think it looks good enough. You think you could do better?"

The solemnity left, and she gave a grin. "If only."

Lunch was probably delicious, but with her so near, it was hard to concentrate on the food. It was strange to be so close to something so beautiful. The Sheriff could picture a doe's eyes flashing up at him as she heard the grass crunch under his foot, but not running away. It was a fleeting moment, to be sure, and one could look into the deer's eyes and never know the mysteries behind them. Sheriff Jay did see something complex in this girl, something more than superficial emotions and boring ideals. He saw something more human than some deer.

"What's that?" He asked, so intrigued by her that he hadn't heard her words.

"Are you ready to go?" She asked again.

He discovered that his plate was clear, and they paid, then left. The rest of the day was relaxing. The Sheriff had been the Sheriff (and not much else) for so long that he'd forgotten what it was like to just relax. He felt so much more comfortable connecting to Jackie than lying to... well, everyone_._

They made it back to B1 in the late hours of the night. Through heavy clouds there was no moonlight to be seen, but Jackie cast something nearly as serene over the Sheriff.

"Sheriff." She said to him in the elevator._ Jay, _he wanted to correct her. "I didn't want to say anything, because we were in public all day, but, um... I've really been thinking about this one thing."

"What?" He asked.

The smile, the bubbles of laughter.

"Sex." She loudly replied.

She kissed him like she'd been waiting all day to do it, and pressed her body tightly against him. In an hour they were exhausted, in moments asleep, and it seemed that the Sheriff's insomnia had lifted away to reveal a starry night sky.

In the morning, it was back to business. Jackie was very lovable, but Jay's was not a love story. At the top, the Sheriff received notice that a truck from SINPD was being unloaded into the warehouse, and the Sheriff decided he didn't need anymore protection for his dealers. The police wouldn't be bothering cartels any longer.

More art came in from his favorite freelancer, and he appraised it with pleasure, not showing it to Jackie for her to crap on. Recruits were skyrocketing with the vaguely subversive ad campaign, and with orders to hire anyone physically fit, the Sheriff wondered how it was all being paid for.

He spoke with an engineer about the reality-altering machine, and after a few minutes of laughing, the man had some thoughts on how to store the data. Electrons with spins of one half and negative one half... it was all very complicated, but the Sheriff did his research, and some of the physics behind it turned out to be interesting. Mr. A seemed barely to grasp it, and it soon became obvious that the entrepreneur was not interested in any conceptualization at all. He was not driven to thinking, only to action, and only by order.

Much like East Complex, North Complex had an expanse of off-limits rooms beneath its bottom floors. In one of them, construction for the machine began. It was decided that, due to its conductivity, a large cube of aluminum would be used to house data. One day, the Sheriff raised to Mr. A a question about it: How would they get it into the building? Mr. A merely attempted a smile, and the next day, the cube was in position. Sheriff Jay was slowly coming to believe that his boss did have something to alter reality. Sheriff Jay nicknamed it the Improbability Drive.

News came in from Sheriff Jay's homemade cartel. The Sheriff was the only one in business, and business was booming. He'd have to visit East Complex, get them to ramp up chemical production to meet the growing demand. Already, though, near a million dollars in profits had been generated.

One day, on his way to an inter-county sale, Sheriff Jay became deeply entrenched in fume-blowing traffic. He left his car to see what was ahead, and found a massive group gathered around a statue in the center of the road. It was a block of asphalt, and carved into its surface was a depiction of God Himself, holding a sword valiantly against the evils of darkness.

"Jesus Christ." The Sheriff muttered. He pulled out his cellphone, covered one ear against the throng, and called James.

"Hello, brother of God." Came his voice.

"James. Hey. Got a quick question for you. Did you happen to erect an enormous fucking statue in the middle of the road?"

"You saw the 200 dead. Forces of evil are upon us, Sheriff. It's up to us to spread word of the light!, and up to the masses to use it."

"Right." Said the Sheriff. "Well, I fully support that. But I have to wonder if there might have been a more convenient way to do it. James, no cars can get past."

"Take another route. There's more than one road going North in this city, Sheriff."

Sheriff Jay rolled his eyes and pocketed the phone. This was Nevada Woods, too, wasn't it? The place had had enough vandalism.

Screw the meeting. By the time Sheriff Jay arrived back at North Complex, it was late. "Good evening, Sheriff. What took so long?" Asked Jackie.

"Someone put a damn statue of God in the middle of the road. It was hours before all the cars were cleared out."

"Where?" Asked Jackie.

"Nevada Woods. Anyway, weren't we going to see that movie tonight?" Asked the Sheriff.

Jackie shook her head, looking honestly regretful. "I'm sorry, I won't be able to make it. I've got something to do."

The Sheriff waved it off. Who needed sleep, anyway?

He went downstairs, drank until he couldn't stand, then headed in to bed. While reflecting on the fact that he still didn't have Jackie's number, the Sheriff's phone buzzed. He looked at the screen, and his eyes immediately widened at the caller.

_11:00 from 'D.F.' - __where the hell are you? you're not done paying for the bitch you broke, not until you've cashed out your life. my sources tell me you've been spending time with a new brunette ho. you don't turn yourself in to me, we're going to find her._

_11:01 from 'D.F' - and then kill her. in case you were wondering._

This looked like a situation he'd need to deal with soon. But for now, an alcohol induced stupor took him to sleep, not to wake up until what felt like a few minutes later, when his phone began to ring.

It was now 0800 hours. His phone identified the caller as James.

"Christ, I'm getting contacted by everyone I don't want to. I need to throw this damn thing away... what is it?" Sheriff Jay said into the phone.

"Something very bad has happened, Sheriff. I need you to come see the statue." Said James, clearly upset.

No, no, the Sheriff didn't have time for that. He needed Daddy Flow killed as soon as possible. "Sorry, brother, but I really need to -"

"There's no time for that." My, James's voice was quite intense when it wanted to be. "Come. Now." And James hung up.

Anything to please those he deceived. It would surely be fast, then he'd go to Tricky and order Daddy Flow hit.

Or, not fast at all. En route to the square where James told him to come, Sheriff Jay found himself on the road with an absurd statue inside it. All traffic was stopped, most cars abandoned. Well, he was close enough to the square, he might as well walk.

He was not far from the car when he saw the crowd. For a second day, the asphalt statue was mobbed. "Jay." Said James.

"Sheriff. And why did you bring me here?" He asked.

"You didn't see it?"

Jay shook his head, and James led him through the mob, up to the once arguably pristine statue. As soon as the Sheriff saw it, he was stricken with a vision of fire.

"My God." Said the Sheriff in reverence. "It's just like the station."

But instead of fire, the statue was covered in blood. It seemed to well from the top and gush from all sides, lacing the stone with dark tears. The red drained also from great red gashes carved into the stone. Or, they seemed to be carved. "It is just graffiti, right?" The Sheriff asked. James nodded.

Where God's face had been the day before, written in letters made to look like deep inscription, was written thus:

_GOD?_

"It's an affront to our cause, Sheriff. First the 200, now this? There is a dark force against us for sure." James.

"Yes, but we already knew that. What exactly am I supposed to do about this?" Asked the Sheriff. _How did they paint this without anyone noticing?_

James cast his eyes about, then took the Sheriff to a dark corner of the square. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a thick golden ring, maybe ten inches in diameter. It brightened the corner so much that they were made easy to see, so James put it back, still holding it. "We were looking for a weapon of God with which to fight this evil." James said. "This is our weapon."

"Do bullets come out of it?"

"Shut up. I could feel the power the moment I touched it. I've never in my life felt so close to God as when I first held this. But," continued James, as the Sheriff threatened to walk away, "it can do more than instill belief. This is what I used to lift that statue from the street."

"I thought you already had powers, from East Complex. You didn't use them to lift it up?" The Sheriff asked.

James chuckled. "Yeah, I had powers. I could make fire come out of my hands. I could also float. Doing either made me collapse in exhaustion. But this ring? It gives me boundless strength. Jay, I healed a sick man with this ring! I can't quite explain it, but I know this ring is the answer."

The Sheriff shrugged. "Where did you get it?"

James looked down. "That's the other thing. My father is sick too, and I can't seem to heal him." Sheriff Jay prodded for more. "I found him holding it in the church basement. I hadn't seen him in... I don't know how many years, and he didn't recognize me in the church, so I had to tell him who I was. But when I got there, he was gone. Muttering incoherently, holding the ring in one hand. I don't know what happened."

"Where is he now?" The Sheriff asked.

"SIN Acres, Home for the Severely Differently Abled. I thought they could help him better than a hospital." Said James.

Well, if something could be learned of this ring, the father would be the one to ask. "Let's go."

"Jay... Sheriff, he was comatose by the time I dropped him off. You're not going to get much out of him."

"We'll see." Said the Sheriff.

James shook his head. "You go. I don't want to see him like that, not again. Here, take this." James extended to him the ring.

Considering its effect on James's father, the Sheriff was wary of touching such a device. He wrapped his hand in the fabric of his shirt before grabbing it, then took it to his car.

The room was cool, the walls were bland. Sheriff Jay was in a sensory deprivation tank, standing upright. But James's father was awake.

"Expansion must accelerate from the origin. Dark matter, repel. And if singularity returns? Yes. Raise entropic levels. Gamma ray expulsion imminent from Star 82190. Avert. Is that everything? Yes, anomalous behavior ceases. Return causality. And, for the other realm..."

"Can you hear me?" Asked the Sheriff. Immediately, the man's ramblings stopped. "Your son sent me here. He wanted to know if you remembered what happened in the church basement."

James's father remained silent, face perfectly blank. Slowly, the Sheriff donned his gloves and took the ring in his hand. When he brought it before the man's face, his back arched, his pupils shrank, and his heart rate began to spike. The Sheriff quickly removed it from his view.

"Hey, hey, calm down. It's okay. I just want to know if you remember where you got this." Said the Sheriff.

The father's body relaxed, though his breathing was still heavy. "He knows of the river. He cannot break it, can he? It's flow is infinite, all powerful. But it should never have gone under that church. It should have been hidden better. If they control it, reality may be compromised. Their own magics are flawed; they surely cannot make true change, but the river..." The man's lips pursed, face contorting in all numbers of shapes. "If all things come from the river, the river can change all things."

The Sheriff pulled out the ring again, just a bit, so that the man could see it for just a moment. "Is this the river?" Asked the Sheriff.

The man bucked again in his bed. "Take it away!" He moaned, voice sounding like the cry of one disabled. He settled down when the ring went away. "The dark one has designs on our river, or would, if IT discovered it. But the other may cause equal damage. If he thinks it a mere ring, who could tell what harm he might do? They must be dissuaded."

The Sheriff looked at the ring - the river - whatever it was, glowing faintly through his jacket pocket. There was something special about the artifact. When he looked back to the father, the father's face was blank, and he'd returned to the indecipherable words before Sheriff Jay had pulled out the ring. And much as he tried, for the next thirty minutes, the father would say nothing else of use.

"Oh well." Said the Sheriff, leaving at long last. "Have a good day, pastor."

While he wondered on the powers of the ring, he was checked out by a kindly old woman at the front desk. He had to write his name down to get in and out. SIN Acres was a tightly run facility. The Sheriff engaged her in conversation while he scribbled his signature, as but for them, the lobby was otherwise empty. "How long have you been working here?" He asked.

"Going on thirty years. My, it's been a long ride. I'm ready to retire." She said, eye corners crinkling when she smiled.

"Come on, it can't be all bad. You must have seen some things in your time here." Said the Sheriff.

"Oh, but I have!" She replied. "The most fun are the schizophrenics and delusional. Now, I don't mean to offend them - and everything's offensive these days, isn't it? - but their hallucinations are better for laughs than anything you kids have on television. My, one time we had a patient named Hugh Tricks..."

Sheriff Jay's head darted up from the paper. "Hugh Tricks?" He said.

"Yes. Do you know him?" She asked.

"I'm going to need you to send me his file right away." The Sheriff said.

"Oh, we can't release -"

"No, ma'am, right away. Do you see this?" He asked, flashing her his old badge. "I need that information for domestic security."

"Well, I'm very sorry officer, but I don't have the clearance to release that kind of information. You'll have to talk to my manager, but I think you may need a subpoena for something like that. I'll -"

"Ma'am." Said the Sheriff, taking one of her hands and looking intensely into her eyes. "This is important."

She nodded. "I'll get it right away, Sheriff."

"Thank you." He said. He'd long ago stopped being astounded at how many people would break the law or violate their own ethics and common sense if confronted with authority. He knew from personal experience that the police wouldn't get anything done if they couldn't trick people into complying. "Thanks again." He said when she handed over Tricky's personal documents. Maybe he should read these before he visited Tricky.

The Sheriff checked his watch again. Given his hurry, the drive home seemed too long. _Home?_ He wondered. Was that really where he was headed? The basement of North Complex was comfortable, but Sheriff Jay hadn't felt at home for many years now. Each house was a residence, a shell to inhabit briefly, then cast off when a better one came available. If home is where the heart is, where was his heart?

He arrived, unlocked the door, and shed his heavy file. Waiting on Arabian leather couch, all neat and orderly, was Mr. A.

"Mr. A." Greeted the Sheriff, suspending all shock at the man's presence. _How did he get in? _"How may I help you?"

The entrepreneur cleared his throat. "Nothing major." He said amiably. "I was just curious. Where've you been this morning?"

First, meeting Unit James. Second, collecting data on Tricky. "Inspecting the statue erected and then defamed in Nevada Woods Square. Vandalism has been bad recently. It haunts me not to get it in check."

Mr. A nodded, appeased. "You are supposed to alert the secretary of your location at all times. I need to know where my employees are."

"Absolutely, Mr. A. I apologize immensely." Said the Sheriff.

Mr. A nodded again. The man's expression was perpetually empty, but as he raised on hand, palm to the ceiling, the Sheriff saw a note of longing. Slowly, cautiously, a few tendrils of black snuck from the palm's center, wrapping around each finger until they grew in intensity, joining, and consumed the hand like fire. If the black smoke from East Complex and the dark overcast of the sky were of another world, this was that world's essence.

He did not speak. He only stared at his hand, now wholly covered in blackness. The Sheriff couldn't decide whether it was solid, liquid, or gas. It seemed closer to plasma, and closer still to void. So it was true; this man too had magic. It would not surprise the Sheriff to find that Mr. A... no, Tricky had called him 'IT', and Tricky was right. It would not surprise him to find that IT had burned East Complex. There was no way to be sure. After all, maybe ITS was a common magic in this world. But the Sheriff had a way to become more confident.

Finally, IT spoke. "I come from a different place, Sheriff. It's thick, rich, and uniform. That is what I want here. Do you want the same?"

The Sheriff said yes, but he was tiring of ITS vision. Sheriff Jay did not want a clean, orderly world, without any mess, without any life. IT settled deeper into the leather. _If only he knew the mess Jackie and I made right there._

"There's no world more appealing, Mr. A." Said the Sheriff.

"Hm." IT uttered. "I've never told you, Sheriff, how much your service is appreciated. Most of your kind cannot abide by my world. You're special." ITS hand closed over the dark essence, ITS brow furrowed.

"I can feel something in this room." IT spoke.

"What is it?" Asked the Sheriff. But even as he said it, he felt the ring glowing in his jacket pocket.

"Something powerful." IT stood, dusted ITS sleeves. "I must depart. Take care, and continue work on the Drive." IT said, and was soon out the door.

"That's right, the Drive." Murmured the Sheriff. If ITS power was profound, but on a limited scale, the Improbability Drive's use was to extend that power to the entire globe. Upon the Drive's completion, the whole world would turn black.

Sheriff Jay gritted his teeth. He had supported plenty of Agency action that the world would deem corrupt, even evil, but this was intolerable. Maybe he could take control of the Drive, though he didn't know how... the most rational course of action was not yet known. His best option was to buy time. He'd control ITS access to the Drive, and he could do so with his trip to East Complex.

After memorizing the file, he burned it, and drove to East Complex just as dusk began to fall. A 2004 Corvette parked outside the gates, left carelessly open, and Sheriff Jay stepped out.

A series of rapid-fire gunshots rang through the air, and the Sheriff dropped low, hand on his revolver. He heard another shot, and up to his right, a corresponding _caw._

A crow fell from the sky, landed feet from the Sheriff's car. Aggravated, he stepped through the gates, but saw not his men doing battle. They were aiming for the sky, shooting at birds and clouds. Some shot at targets assembled haphazardly on the grounds. Sheriff Jay didn't think any of them were shooting in the actual training rooms.

"Excuse me." He said to a circle of men, grinning in on some spectacle. None noticed, so he squeezed through the group.

At the center, cloth-wrapped knuckles struck a man hard in the chin. "Ohh!" Cheered the crowd as he backed away and was shoved back in. The man's assailant pounded her fists together, ducked his punch, then struck him in the gut, ponytail whipping in the air.

"Goddammit Tony, I put money on you!" Laughed a few in the crowd.

"Okay, okay, I'm calling it." Said the referee, helping up the man, curled into fetal position. "Tony." Said the referee seriously, looking into the mans eyes. "You," and he looked up to the crowd, "just got your ass handed to you! Come on, you need to go drink. I wouldn't be afraid of some memory loss, if I were you. Now, who's next?"

As the next fight started, the Sheriff gave up hope of getting anyone's attention. It was too loud, and they were too focused. It was strange how happy these people were. Whether it was the freedom or some other factor, Sheriff Jay doubted that these were the same depressed and addicted people they were when they entered under Tricky's care.

After thirty minutes of searching, the Sheriff found his favorite unit in the warehouse, hooked in to some musical equipment.

"Tricky." Said the Sheriff on entering the warehouse, looking past two knife-jugglers. He looked so happy standing behind his turntable, for whatever reason he had one of those. Through the clown makeup, he actually looked innocent. Peaceful."You've got quite a facility here."

Tricky sent out the two units and gave the Sheriff an update on progress. "The bodies are all cleared out. We fixed the generators. Chemical output is up. And I've been training all the troops I requested."

The Sheriff nodded. "Only depressed or addicted soldiers, that's right. They look plenty happy now. You've done a good job here, Tricky." He _had _done a good job. The Sheriff felt he couldn't congratulate Tricky enough.

"So, what are you doing here?" Asked the clown.

_Apparently, feeling an increasing amount of guilt for deceiving you. _"Checking up on progress. I couldn't exactly call your secretary, could I?" The Sheriff smiled.

Tricky laughed. "I knew I was forgetting something. I'll have East HQ and Communications up by tomorrow."

"No rush." Said the Sheriff. He looked around. "I see you've made some changes to the warehouse. Is it an auditorium now?"

Sheriff Jay wasn't quite sure what happened next, but it came out of the speakers and it sounded very good.

He clapped in appreciation when the headphones came down. "You play this for the men?" He asked.

Tricky shook his head. "No. Actually, I had all the walls soundproofed so they won't hear it. If they want to hear something good, they should skip over this, listen to this old beat." Hugh said, pulling out a cassette.

The Sheriff shrugged, it had sounded fine to him. He said as much, then told Tricky that the Sheriff needed him to do something.

"Hit somebody?" Tricky asked.

"Or have your men do it. They're a bit uncoordinated, but seem deadly enough. I've said it before, I'll say it again: It's all your choice." That was important, to give Tricky choice in the matter. After reading the clown's file, he knew that better than ever.

"How well armed is the target?" Tricky inquired.

"Better than your soldiers. They recently got a shipment of weapons from North Complex." The assholes. "And their recruitment strategy has been more than a little expansionist." The Sheriff replied.

Tricky's eyebrows scrunched together. "I don't really want to send them somewhere dangerous." He said. "Why are we killing these people?"

Now, here was the important part. Tricky'd had hours to discuss his troubled past with a psychologist, and Sheriff Jay'd found the notes to reveal a huge amount of moral guilt on Tricky's shoulders. It would be important to convince Tricky that these people were evil. "Well, to be honest with you, they're hardly people. The leader's made his living by exploiting women, and recently he began sending assassins and destroying houses." Primarily directed at the Sheriff himself, but Tricky didn't need to know that. "I'd never ask you to do something that I believed was wrong, Tricky," mainly because he didn't believe much in 'wrong', but he could "assure you that shutting down this operation is nothing short of saintly."

Tricky contemplated, then asked who the leader was.

"He goes by the name of Daddy Flow." Said the Sheriff.

"Is he evil?" Tricky asked very directly.

Time to put on the acting hat. "This man is quite possibly the most evil human being I have ever encountered. Every second he's alive is another second someone is being taken advantage of. Each breath he takes is one stolen from another's lungs. There's no moral grey area right here, Tricky. This one's pretty straightforward."

Tricky gave it some more thought, then seemed to reach a decision. "Communications will be up by tomorrow. Send me the details then, and the moment I receive them, I'll be on my way. You can count on me, Sheriff Jay." Tricky said.

"That I can." Sheriff Jay replied. "A soldier of justice." And after warning Tricky to take help, he remembered what else he needed. He snapped his fingers, back turned to the clown. "One last thing, Tricky. Just who is in charge of your chemical output?"

The chemical plant turned out to be in the same place it always had, so Sheriff Jay made his way over.

"Do you know anything about the chemical used in filters for the East Complex fire?" The Sheriff asked the head chemist.

"Absolutely. Why? Do you need some?" The chemist replied.

"Yes. I heard it was difficult to produce, but if you're supplied with any materials you might need, how soon do you think I could get some?" The Sheriff asked.

"Oh, not long at all. Only reason it took so long at Base was because Base just didn't have the tools to do it right. God, I love our tech at East. But it's lucky I was helping out over there on the day of the fire, they wouldn't have known how to make it in the first place. But yeah, we can make it very quickly here. We even have some prepared in case something happens again." Said the chemist.

"That's fantastic. How much do you have?" He asked. He thanked the chemist for a few ounces of the chemical, then asked for the final thing he needed at East. "There's also this other thing." Said the Sheriff.

The chemist raised a hand to stop him. "You want us to restart opiate production, right?" He asked. The Sheriff nodded. "Yeah, we're way ahead of you there, too. Got a truck-full out back. But I heard down the grapevine that the Agency is expanding into some other chemicals?"

"You heard right." Said the Sheriff.

"You just send over a list, and we'll get working. Don't worry about a thing, Sheriff: My team is fantastic at this." The Sheriff thanked him and headed back.

At Base, the he spoke to an engineer about the second part of his plan.

"So," said the engineer, "you want me to magnetically suspend this chemical around the perimeter of the computer room?"

"Yes." Said the Sheriff. As well as he remembered, the software of the Drive's computer was compiled, but the data storage was not yet built. As long as the chemical was all over the room, IT would be able to enter when only when Sheriff Jay let IT. (Or not, and the Sheriff would find out that IT was not the destroyer of East Complex.) But when the machine was more complete, when it would be dangerous to let IT near the Drive, he could keep IT out merely by changing the door's password.

"That sounds... really impractical. What if we just painted it onto the floor and walls? Could that work?"

Oh. Well, yes, that would work just as well. Sheriff Jay supposed that the idea wasn't especially scientific. Still, he'd had a fun idea. In movies, the scientist would just do it.

"Cool." Said the engineer. "By the way, Wes told me... Wes, the spatter analyst... yeah, he told me to get you this blood report. Gist of it is that the blood was highly flammable, so he found out what was burning was some chemical in the plasma. It also gave the blood its dark pigmentation. Some of the equipment was having trouble, so he couldn't identify the chemical - he said something about static interference in the machine."

Sheriff Jay thanked him and sent the engineer from his office. Then, after an hour of tedious paperwork, he got a call.

"Sheriff Jay." Said James.

"James." Said Sheriff Jay. He already regretted picking the phone up. Was he about to hear more tired rhetoric? James's voice was too fast; it sounded like the man was just catching his breath.

"Do you have the ring?" Asked James.

"Yes." Said the Sheriff, opening his desk drawer.

"I need it." Said James.

"What, you need to carve up another rock? I'll get it back to you tomorrow." The Sheriff replied.

"No, Sheriff, you don't understand. I need it now, and forever. It's who I am." Said James.

"Alright. I'll bring it to you. Where are you?" Asked the Sheriff.

Hand gloved, he pulled the ring from its drawer. It was covered in ants. He shook them loose, contending internally that it couldn't be _that _tasty.

Sheriff Jay reached the spot and waited for James. There was a thick tree on the sidewalk, untended and withered. He leaned against it, pulled a leaf from a drooping branch. It was brittle and dry, turning to flakes when he crushed it.

James showed up, took his halo, and thanked the Sheriff. Then, arms folded, he looked just past him. "Now that is a nice tree. God gives us so many gifts, doesn't he?" James asked.

The Sheriff looked back at the tree. It was hearty and tall, leaves green, branches firm. "He certainly does."

The Sheriff wondered about the ring on the way back. With whatever dark senses IT had, Mr. A had detected it. It had given life to the tree. He remembered what James's father had said about it. _If all things come from the river, the river can change all things._

What if the ring was more than a powerful artifact? Could it be something truly important, something fundamental? Back at the office, he opened again the drawer. A few nubs had sprouted from the wood. Life.

After he packed, leaving his office, there was an unfamiliar tingle in his stomach. Would she come downstairs with him again?

Yes was the answer. Sheriff Jay would never play SINPD radio, not for Jackie. So, lying still that night, pillow-talk made sense. "You're much more outgoing at the office." He told her. Because it was true, she seemed so reserved when not a secretary.

"It comes with the job." She said.

No insomnia tonight. The Sheriff awoke early in the mornings, always restless, always ready to roll half-lidded from sleeping to conquering. But he was not restless on these mornings, where he stared at the same image for an hour without tiring of it. She was more striking than any of those sketches, burning a brighter flame than any graffiti. Her lashes seemed painted down her cheeks, but though her shut eyes were peaceful, the Sheriff waited in anticipation of the vivid blue beneath.

"Good morning." She said, when those eyes finally opened.

"Morning." He said. "I love you." He didn't say.

He thought about her all day. He wasn't bothered by James, so he had time to picture her. He didn't have meetings, so he could choreograph in the bright a dark night's dance. It was not until late that Mr. A visited his office. It would be one of their last meetings over the Drive, as the system was mostly in place.

There was a prominent puzzle that Sheriff Jay hadn't solved. How would IT transfer so much data to the computer? It must be some incredible power, but the Sheriff wanted to know the mechanics. "So, storing this vast amount of information is a work well in progress. But how is this information to be obtained?"

Mr. A tried ITS smile. The Sheriff wished IT would stop doing that. "Your employee, Tricky." The Auditor began, closing ITS eyes. "Do you know where he is right now?"

Hunting Daddy Flow.

The Sheriff watched Mr. A's eyes move under the lids. IT saw something.

"Tricky is entering a warehouse as we speak." The Auditor said. That was right. How did IT know?

He saw IT grimace, as though Mr. A had seen something not to ITS satisfaction.

"He's just killed the occupants of a warehouse and is in the process of leveling it." Said Mr. A.

Leveling the warehouse! The Sheriff had well convinced the clown of Flow's evil, hadn't he? Sheriff Jay's radio buzzed to life. It was eerie, hearing what would happen moments before it did.

"Tricky coming in, do you read me, over." Sheriff Jay read him. "Daddy Flow has been eliminated."

The sound of an explosion came over the radio. Was it that Mr. A could see anything, anywhere? If so, IT probably would have chosen something more interesting than Tricky. Maybe IT could inhabit the minds of ITS employees. But then, why ask where Sheriff Jay had gone the other day? Why could IT not find James? Sheriff Jay could only assume that entering an employees mind was a difficult process, only sometimes doable. The Sheriff would normally smile and give Tricky a heartfelt thank you. But IT was here, and it didn't know that the Sheriff and the clown were on so much as a first name basis. "Mission accomplished, good work, Unit Tricky. Over."

The connection terminated, and something occurred to the Sheriff. If Mr. A could watch from a distance, could he communicate as well? He asked if IT could communicate in radio frequencies, and IT nodded.

"That's interesting." Said the Sheriff.

So, it had been Mr. A. IT had burned East. There was no hard evidence of it yet, but who else could it be? This demon looked as malevolent as any. James believed that whatever had burned East had also committed the 200 Massacre. Watching as Mr. A went out the door, it wasn't hard to believe.

The day had sped by, and it wasn't until he saw her again that it slowed. It surprised him that he'd actually had five meetings today, all attended, all profitable.

"Are you going to invite me down, Sheriff?" She asked because he was standing so silently.

Hell, he didn't want to invite her. He wanted to give her his key and never need it back.

"Ladies first." He said, guiding her into the elevator.

Laying still, now, mind nearly asleep. The Sheriff didn't remember cuddling anyone before. He must have, somewhen, but this felt like something new.

"What do you want, Sheriff?" She asked.

"Strength." He replied, but wondered if the true answer was more intimate.

He knew she could feel him, just as he felt her. "I think you're already strong, Sheriff." She murmured. "You're the strongest man I know."

Flattery had never meant much to Sheriff Jay. It had yet to help him optimize.

The Sheriff was still a skeptic, after all. Love was a feeling, just like joy, sadness, contentedness, hate. Great men could rally millions by making them feel, and gain an army in the doing. But a single man, angry, with feelings and nothing else? One bullet was enough to kill his army. Love could be overwhelming, true. So could a strong need to shit.

Then why, suddenly, was Jay letting himself feel? What made this girl so special that she could carve through a lifetime of detachment?

It was a strange thing. The Sheriff was a powerful man. He was an enigma, a villain, a de facto king. Sheriff Jay, and anyone else, would unquestioningly assume that he was a mysterious shadow to Jackie's open innocence. But Jay realized, looking at her, that she knew more about him than any person alive. And he knew nothing about her.

"Who are you, Jackie?" He asked. He had to know.

"No one."

If she were no one, how could she affect him in this manner? How did it come about that, despite a thorough incomprehension of this girl, Sheriff Jay felt so deeply that he needed her?

He remembered shooting Ellie. He'd shared years with her, enjoyed her company more than that of any other. And then, when taken by evil eyes, he shot her. It wasn't until he'd met Jackie that he remembered the incident. After all, Ellie had been a whore, and the Sheriff had been a hard man. He was still a hard man.

He didn't have any true feelings for Jackie. He couldn't. He'd just been starved of companionship. He'd hurt her, once, then seen her as wounded. And she was pretty. That was all this was. Not love, hardly lust. Just a combination of factors to overcome his better judgement.

With all this in mind, "no one" became a satisfying answer after all.

The next morning, he was ready. Idiot thoughts of love purged from his mind, the Sheriff could be as effective as ever. He slipped from bed without waking her, showered quickly, then heated yesterday's chicken. There'd be no cooking this morning.

But he did leave a plate for her. Beside it was a hastily scribbled note, _important meeting,_ and with that written, Sheriff Jay grabbed last night's newspaper and fled.

Back in the office. Comfortable. Lavish. Good. When he sat in his chair, it may as well have been a throne for all the power it afforded him. Unproductive thoughts on the periphery, he was awake again, and bettered by the experience.

He lay the new newspaper flat on the table, poured himself a sobering glass of Scotch, and began to read. And, when he read, he could hardly keep the Scotch in his mouth. _SIN Churchgoers Recount Story of Angel of God,_ read the headline. That would be James, and though James was many things, Angel of God was nowhere near the list.

Jackie must have shown up at some point, because Mr. A was soon buzzed in.

He set down the newspaper and greeted IT.

"The Drive doesn't work." IT said.

"Of course not. We haven't set up the external storage yet." The Sheriff replied.

"I did, last night, and the Drive had limited power. It passed the first trial. No others. My Agents did not supply enough information about their environment in order to instantiate necessary variables. Although I successfully created an object in my environment, which supplied plenty of information, but it was unstable. It exploded." Said Mr. A.

That was interesting. He asked what had caused the explosion, and the man told me that the object was not fundamentally cooperative with the world.

That made some sense. Whatever magic IT possessed may have been able to imitate matter, but the Improbability Drive had tried to create a genuine entity. For the Drive to be cooperative with the world's foundation, it would need to use something more powerful than Mr. A. Maybe something that, incidentally, was deeply intertwined with the foundation of the world.

The ring. Everything came of the ring, had said James's raving father, and soon now could come some more.

"This is a problem I can fix." Said the Sheriff. He didn't want any more explosions, so the Drive needed to be shut down. "In the meantime, do not test the Drive. You can make your own alterations to the world, but do not use our software to do so."

Mr. A asked what the issue was, so the Sheriff explained his own interpretation, that the Drive did not have enough control over the foundations of reality. As example, he asked whether the keystone had ever summoned a quark or exerted gluon force. No, Mr. A need not attempt that, but the Drive would, and would find its power lacking in the attempt.

The Sheriff told IT that his team could adapt the keystone. When Sheriff Jay received an uncomfortable look, he realized that Mr. A thought that IT, being said keystone, might be altered. No, with the ring available, Mr. A's power input would be minimal. The ring needed only to hook in to the Drive.

"Don't worry about your keystone." Said the Sheriff. "It won't be harmed by the process."

Appeased, Mr. A asked him if he'd found Unit James. The Sheriff shook his head. At this time, James was much more valuable as a secret than a unit.

Mr. A leaned back. The Sheriff had never given IT any reason not to trust him, so IT was probably comfortable on all fronts. But then, IT motioned towards the newspaper on Sheriff Jay's desk. "What is this?" IT asked.

That wasn't good. If Mr. A read the paper, IT would find that the Sheriff had been lying about James. He did his best to act offended, even disgusted by the papers, making them out to be as disorderly as anything. "Nothing but the standard complexities of SIN." He said. "My arduous task: To sort through the madness to find something of value."

Unfortunately, IT requested the paper anyway.

"I'm afraid there's nothing useful in this catalogue. Yesterday's news. I'll get your the next one." He said. Most would consider this a desperate situation, see themselves dangling on the brink of being found out, but the Sheriff was always calm. He'd just lie, again and again.

"Still. I'd like the paper." Mr. A said.

Flatter IT, insult the papers. "Don't concern yourself with it. These are infuriating human matters. You're far above them." A moment passed, and Mr. A's eyes narrowed. Hm. He was treading dangerous waters.

"Still." IT spoke, and now IT sounded like IT, and not like Mr. A at all. The room grew cold, but the Sheriff thought only of heat.

And the paper burned. Mr. A was displeased, and IT looked at the Sheriff in a way that it never had before. He began to feel a rustle of movement at the sides of his consciousness.

_So that's how it works! _He thought. Now he knew for sure that Mr. A had never entered his mind before, or it would have felt like this. Carefully, the Sheriff cleared every true thought from his mind, replacing it with a general sense of straightforwardness and honesty. Mr. A searched, found nothing meaningful, and finally stood. The temperature returned to room. "When I ask something, I expect it, Sheriff. There is no discussion."

The Sheriff nodded and gave a remorseful smile. Thoughts returned, boss gone, he opened up his laptop. At this point, he had all the confirmation he needed, but if there were definitive evidence, he may as well view it.

The quality wasn't very good. But in a time lapse of the computer room door, he eventually saw a shadowed figure approach. The figure tried to walk through the door, but was cast violently back.

_Stupid practical paint._ Mused the Sheriff.

The figure was forced to enter the passcode, and switching cameras, Sheriff Jay saw it from the front for the first time, entering the room. IT was frightening, to say the least. IT sat at the computer and began to type. It was difficult to make out, but an image of another dimly lit room opened on the screen. The Sheriff watched IT type fruitlessly for several minutes, but eventually closed the image and shifted ITS attention to ITS own room.

A few minutes of typing, and a gatling gun appeared in the room's center. When it exploded, the feed cut off.

Sheriff Jay followed the cameras as IT limped, drained, down the hallway, eventually bumping into an Agency unit. The unit mouthed something, then looked up and saw the terrifying force before him. IT reached into his chest, and his eyes became as sackcloth, and his skin became as pitch, and then IT consumed him completely. IT stood straighter after that, and spread back down to the basement, to the terminal room, and stood silently until morning.

The Sheriff watched IT turn to Mr. A, then walk into the Sheriff's office.

_That, _thought the Sheriff, eyebrows raised,_ was quite a confirmation._

Before he could watch it again, Tricky burst into his office. Sheriff Jay wondered if the clown had been out consuming humans.

Jackie poked in her head. "Sir, I'm very sorry. He just burst right in. Should I call security?"

He told her there was no need, and waited for her to leave. Then he was alone with Tricky, and he saw nothing but pain in the clown's eyes. The sky was still clouded, and with his own troubles close to the surface, he felt nothing but sympathy for Tricky. "So, Tricky, what can I help you with on this dismal morning?"

He could tell that Tricky agreed about the weather. "I don't think I have a sense of morality, Sheriff Jay." He said.

Why would Tricky think that? Hadn't the Sheriff convinced him that killing the pimp was just? "Do you think you did that wrong thing to that sex trafficker?" He asked.

"Exactly." Tricky replied.

Oh, that was bad news.

"I drove him the shipment of weapons he's been hurting people with." Tricky continued.

Okay, this news was far more interesting. The Sheriff put away his laptop and told Jackie to hold all calls and keep everyone out.

The clown felt badly. Sheriff Jay didn't want that. Years of speeches coalesced, and the Sheriff told him that his killing of the pimp only meant that Tricky was learning from his mistakes and becoming even more moral.

Tricky turned down his head, looking especially unmotivated by the Sheriff's words. "Maybe so. But there's something else." The Sheriff asked what, and Tricky said that the weapons he supplied were used to do something awful. They were used to kill his friend, and Tricky blamed himself. Two things were clear. The most important was that Mr. A had ordered weapons stolen from the Agency. The other, the one he could use now, was that Sheriff Jay knew who'd made Tricky feel this way.

"I lost someone in a similar way." Murmured the Sheriff, Ellie bleeding on the outskirts of his vision. "Not too long ago, in fact. She'd just told me that she loved me." He knew that Mr. A gave black eyes to its victims, and he knew that Tricky knew the same. "But black eyes took her away." He said. If the clown wasn't turned against IT now, he never would be.

"I imagine you're feeling some sorrow. I know that I am." Said Sheriff Jay, uncorking his best Scotch, pouring liberally. "Sorrow is hard." One to Tricky, one to him.

Yes, sorrow was hard, and it was just now slipping through the cracks. Maybe a lifetime hardening had made him too brittle, and the faults were just now starting to show. So, yes, sorrow was hard.

"Luckily, there's a cure." Said the Sheriff. And he drank, but knew his drink was no more than a distraction.

Tricky left, probably drunker, hopefully happier. Sheriff Jay was neither. It was too sobering to know the truth after being close to it for so long. He'd promised before he met Mr. A to find everything there was to know about him. Now he knew that IT wasn't a him at all, and he nearly regretted the search.

Funding had been cut at the police station. Thomas admitted to not working alone, and there was only one thing the Sheriff knew insidious enough to plot the destruction of someone's reputation. _You?_ Asked a pesky, penetrating voice.

A weapons shipment had left North and never arrived at Base. Tricky as ITS hand, Mr. A had done that. And all of those weapons had gone to the pimp who'd been suddenly, inexplicably, turned against him.

And East Complex had swallowed innumerable soldiers and spat them out dead. Mr. A had committed that, and worse: the 200 Massacre. IT had been plotting against the Sheriff since before IT had met him, forcing him further from his power at every turn, and finally placing him, malleable, into the lap of the Agency. Because, as Ellie had said, IT needed intelligent men.

Oh, that was right. IT had killed Ellie. That was the worst of it, the Sheriff thought.

A small voice reminded him that in fact, it had been the Sheriff who'd put the bullet in Ellie's head.

But it didn't matter. Not anymore.

Trust no one, went the old adage. He'd spent his time being manipulated, but he was done with it now. Weary, wary, harder than before. Daddy Flow was dead, the Agency was his, and the Sheriff knew ITS weakness. The game was over. The Sheriff had won.

He convinced James to return to the Agency, operating solely on the Sheriff's orders. Most likely, Mr. A's mental connection with the ring would make the Improbability Drive cooperative, and its power would be limited only to what was in sight of the minds IT owned.

It was late, now. Much later than he needed to be at the office. Out into the lobby, the Sheriff found himself alone, his world a faint outline in the dark. Jackie wasn't at her desk - she would have left a couple hours ago - so there'd be no one to go home to.

It was hard to give her up. If he saw her every day, it would undoubtedly be harder. He still didn't have her number, so he quickly found her address, then got in his car.

No one would ever understand Jay's vile insides. Even if he were to share them, they'd only be considered evil, only ever be harmful. Jackie had nothing nearly as dark inside of her, and he could never accept that, and she could never accept him. No need to hurt her anymore. Might as well set her free, let her be perfect somewhere that she could keep her innocence.

_One last goodbye,_ he thought, pulling up to her place. The engine hummed to a stop, and the only sound left was the strangely dark rain drumming on his windshield. He got out, got wet, and walked into the building. Whatever civilian operated the front desk seemed familiar with the Sheriff, and let him pass with a brief salute.

He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. Yes, this was the room. He knocked on the door, waited for her to answer. The last time, their last encounter. She'd be at Base Complex soon, or maybe North. The next secretary could figure it out.

He knocked again, and the door swung open. "You leave your door unlocked?" The Sheriff muttered, and closed it behind him.

It was dark inside. No one home. The Sheriff couldn't find a working light, but his phone could lead him to a chair. Before he could turn it on, he accidentally kicked something metal that rolled loudly across the floor before clinking to a stop. He shone the light to inspect it. It was a paint can.

And the floor it rolled across had been covered in paint, mostly excess splatter, but here and there were designs. Using his light, he followed one design as it spiraled across the floor, rolled up the wall, and culminated in a rose. No, the rose wasn't the end of it, as the vines turned to cracks that turned to spiderwebs that came down the opposite wall and then frayed to show a creature's home long abandoned.

There was more. Paint on every wall, all the way across, all just ideas, all abstract, all detailed to the point of reality. There was no paint on the windows, only canvases that continued the designs around them. Canvases everywhere, really. Stacked against a wall, hanging from an edge, nearly stepped on underfoot. And just as numerous as the canvases were the supplies. Brushes, pens, pencils, paints, some in cans, some loose on the floor. There were several tools on the coffee table, and gleaming with white-screen light, he saw a messy stack of drawings.

The top one was a simple sketch. _Man at the Helm,_ it was titled, dated two years ago. From behind a desk, it depicted Sheriff Jay, standing dominant in the room's center, surrounded by officers, all fading as they moved from the center. He remembered that day well. He'd taken the whole department to the Agency to perform a mock arrest on an unnamed perpetrator for the newspapers, effectively silencing their recent cries of Agency corruption. He'd been applauded as a hero after that, but he'd never noticed the blue-eyed girl watching him from her desk. He flipped through the papers. There was fruit, there was a dog, there was a striking image of running blood. He'd seen that blood before. There was a park, there was a tree, there were tens and tens more images.

Nearly two years of drawings passed, and there was the Sheriff again. It was the first time he'd met Jackie, and he seemed much bigger than anything around him. The paper couldn't fit his entire body. He went further, and there were bodies from the Agency morgue, bloody battlegrounds, detailed drawings of the entire Agency armory, and then Sheriff Jay, and the Sheriff again, and again and again and again and again.

There were other picture, too. An intense dark soldier, eyes narrowed, angled towards the gaunt police officer to his right. There were several versions of that one. There were other Agency advertisements, too, most of which the Sheriff had never shown her. Then there were more pictures of him, and then a picture of the SINPD police station burning to the ground. It was dated a month before the station actually burned.

He stood, and walked to the back of the room. There was a walk-in closet there, and the Sheriff stepped inside and set his light down on the floor, lighting the whole closet aglow. On all sides were canvases, tall as a man, angled towards the center. On every canvas were bodies, so many of them that the Sheriff couldn't count, but he didn't need to, because the canvases were all a part of one view, the one that you'd have if you spun in place at the 200 Massacre. He looked up, and saw clouds painted even grimmer than the truly clouded sky, for they had these words in black:

_Every soul sent to hell left a cold corpse behind it. If any ascend, then there is more blood on Earth than there will ever be in hell. _

_Man kills man. _

_So where is this GOD?_

The same _'GOD?'_ currently defacing the statue in nearby Nevada Woods Square. He put his phone in his pocket and backed slowly away. The art was unnerving, formidable, overwhelming. In honesty, it was powerfully intimidating.

Sheriff Jay heard the twist of a doorknob behind him. The mechanism unlatched, and the door swung open, and then the door closed. There was a moment of fumbling for a switch, but then a weak lamp sprung to life in front of the Sheriff. He was silhouetted from behind. Now there was a moment of silence, then a gasp.

"Sheriff." She breathed, shock palpable in her voice. He didn't turn. They were silent for almost a minute. "What are you...?" But she didn't finish, probably thinking the Sheriff's questions to be much bigger than her own.

Really, the entire apartment was an image. Not of the designs, but of the girl who made them.

A girl obsessed with death. At least fascinated. Night Jackie was alien, and Day Jackie kept her wallowing in the dark. She painted blood, she hated God. She peered into the ocean of war. The tide was high, and she let it run around her calves.

"I know that, after seeing this, you're done with me. And..." Her voice was shaky. She breathed deep through her nose to steady it. "And I'll do whatever you want me too, whether you want me to leave your floor, or leave East, or leave Nevada, I'll do it, and you can forget about this, and you can forget about me. But before that... before we go... I just need you to know that..." Her voice was trembling again, and the words came in between gasps and shallow breaths. "You're important to me. I'll never stop thinking about you. And I never wanted you to find out about this, Sheriff, I just couldn't control it. I wanted... I needed to stay with you. But the most important thing? You have to know how sorry I am. I know what I did, making you think I was a normal girl. And I know I don't deserve forgiveness for that. But I wanted to be normal. For you."

When he didn't respond, he heard her slide down the wall to the paint streaked floor, legs held in her arms. "I'm sorry." She reiterated. The room seemed different now that he knew how much paint it held, how much story, how much time. The Sheriff knew nothing about that. His houses had never been homes. He'd never poured passion into the walls. "Say something." She whispered.

Jackie wore a mask, maybe many, manufactured guises all to pretend at normalcy. She wore a mask assuming no one could accept that behind it. She would only ever be harmful, only ever considered evil. She thought she'd be alone.

She wasn't the only one.

Jackie was an enigma, a criminal, a force of nature. The Sheriff finally turned, saw her face, wreathed in shadow. Not weak. Never innocent.

_Say something, _she had said.

"I love you." Said Jay.


	13. The Lawless

A/N: Shorty. I just found out how heavily FFN reformats my text, so I'm going to try asterisks instead of triple newlines. I don't like it. But it's functional.

Some hundreds in the streets, some starving for a meal, somewhere between the shanty towns and high-rises. People did more of their living outside than in, and the hot dog cart had fair business.

"Did he come in from the desert?" Asked the boy his father.

"It's rude to talk about strangers. Ain't your mama taught you nothing?" Replied the father, handing out another hot dog.

"Mama talk about _everyone._" Said the boy.

"Mama's a gossip." The father said.

"Yeah." Said the boy, but kept looking at the man. "I think that man has blood on his clothes." He said.

"Anything can happen in the desert. He's lucky if it ain't his." The father answered.

"I guess." Said the boy. After a while, he walked over. The man didn't seem to see him coming, and didn't react when he spoke.

"Where'd you get that stereo?" Asked the boy, face curious and round.

The man didn't answer.

"It's a nice one." Said the boy. The man still didn't respond, so the boy sat down beside him.

"What are you doing?" Asked the boy. After all, the man was sitting cross legged, eyes downcast, polishing something that glinted in his lap. "Are you cleaning something?"

"Go back to your father." Said the man.

"What are you cleaning?" The boy asked. The man briefly raised it, set it back, and returned to polishing the steel.

"My daddy has one of those." Said the boy. "Except, I think yours is a newer model. The magazine looks bigger."

"Desert Eagle." Said the man.

The boy nodded. They were quiet for a minute, then the boy spoke again. "I saw you tearing down a flyer earlier. Why'd you do that?" The boy asked.

The man began to disassemble his weapon. He took his time before answering. "Do you know what the flyer was for?" The man asked.

"Agency recruiting. Daddy says the Agency is against all the new SINPD laws. He says he'd sign up if he didn't have me and mama to take care of."

The man peered down his barrel, pushed out the dirt, peered down the barrel. "Not all flyers are honest." Said the man.

"Why don't you like the Agency?" Insisted the boy.

The man stopped in his cleaning. He did not look at the boy, but did devote him a moment's attention. "I believe in freedom." Said the man. "Most people want control. Some want to be controlled, and some want to do the controlling. Whether there are gods or just their preachers, at least someone is after dominance." He resumed cleaning, no sense of import having ever entered his voice. "I'm not."

"Whatchu mean by that?" Asked the dealer.

"I mean what it fuckin' mean, nigga. I ain't buying the shit you pushing no more."

"How you gonna call my shit shit?" The dealer seemed hurt, underneath it all.

"With my fuckin' mouth. Listen, y'all dope is cheap, but it ain't nothing compared to this new guy. He done -"

"New guy?" Asked the dealer.

"That's what I said, wasn't it? He done murked y'all on the quality. Don't you pretend you wasn't cutting it with Advil - yeah, I see that look on y'all face, I know you know what I mean." Said the customer.

"Man..." Said the dealer, brow furrowed. "How you know he's not pushing some RC?" He asked. "Research chemical," he added when the customer's brow furrowed. "that shit's bad for you."

"Nah, I seen the packaging and whatnot. It's pharmacy grade stuff." Said the customer.

The dealer put his hands in his pockets, kicked a rock on the pavement. "What am I supposed to do?" He said.

"Talk to this new guy. Goes by the name Order-Up."

"That's gimmicky, man." Muttered the dealer.

"Ain't nobody care if the shit's gimmicky! I told you, it's pharmacy grade! Anyway, you probably gonna have to get with his crew. You find him here..." The customer wrote down an address and handed it to the dealer. "Tell him who sent you. He's this crazy looking white boy, doesn't have a quarter ounce of people skills. Would be a relief to deal with you and not him. You good?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm good. And I'll do it. Just can't believe this cracker blowing up my spot like this." The dealer said.

"I know. I'm sorry. Hey, at least you ain't got to sign up for that Agency bullshit." Said the customer.

"Those flyers? What, you don't like the Agency? I hear they're trying to get the bacon off our ass." Said the dealer.

"Oh, I like the Agency. Only thing is, you try to work for 'em, you'd get your ass shot."

"Aw, shut up, nigga! I'd be shooting up the enemy left and right!" The dealer said, firing his fingers as proof.

The customer laughed, and they parted ways, dealer heading off to meet a crazy white boy. He knocked on the door, and there was a pause in the rustling inside.

"Who is it?" Asked a distinctly white voice.

"I'm here to see Order-Up." The dealer replied, rolling his eyes as he said the name.

He heard several locks click open, then a chain stretched between the door and its frame.

"Are you a cop?" Asked the white boy, just one eye visible through the opening.

"No." Said the dealer.

"You know, you'd have to tell me if you were a cop." Said the boy.

"No I wouldn't. You ever met a cop? Everything they say is a lie." The dealer replied. _Is this kid retarded?_

"Nah, I mean..." The boy opened the door fully, looked both ways down the hall, and invited him into the room. "The deal I have worked out with the Sheriff."

"I don't know no Sheriff, but Michael sent me for some..." The dealer stopped, mouth open, when he saw the piles of packages littering the apartment.

_Where does this cracker sleep?_ The dealer wondered.

"I assume you want to deal for the Agency, right?" The supplier asked. "What do you sell?"

"Mostly coke." The dealer murmured, eyebrows raised. "So, you just let me in here, not even knowing who I was."

"Yeah, yeah. Alright, here you go. I think that's about a kilo. I don't know how fast you move 'em, I can get you a few more if you need. What? What are you doing with your face?"

The dealer tried to clear his shocked look.

"I'm sure you know how to price it already, so just bring me back eighty percent of your revenue by the end of the month. Honor system." Said Order-Up.

He couldn't help it. The look returned.

"I don't know why you keep making that face at me. Oh, by the way, would be a big favor if you took one of those to that cart that charges thirty dollars for a hot dog. You know the one." Said the white boy.

How was this boy the new Scarface of Nevada?

"Christ, you're creeping me out with that face, man. Get out of here, sell some horse. What? This isn't horse? I don't know your lingo. I'll get you a bag to carry those."

Later, the dealer found the hot dog cart. "Hey." He said to the vendor.

"Hey. You here for a dog?" The vendor asked. Dealer nodded. "How many grams?" Asked the vendor.

"No, a real hot dog." The dealer replied.

"Oh." Said the vendor, a little surprised. "Mustard?"

"And ketchup."

The vendor nodded, and the dealer pulled a package from his bag. "This is for you." He said, holding it out. The vendor inspected it, opened a door on his cart, and set it carefully inside.

"Thanks." Said the vendor. "So, Order-Up sent you?"

The dealer rolled his eyes at the name, and the vendor laughed.

"I know, man, I'm right there with you." Said the vendor. Condiments applied, the dealer leaned back against the cart to eat. "What's your name?"

"Lamar." Said Lamar. The vendor's name was Ahmed. "You know, that white boy let me in without even knowing who I was."

"Not like there was anything to worry about. We're all under Agency protection." Said the vendor.

"White boy said something about that." Replied Lamar. Specifically, he'd said there was a deal worked out with the Sheriff.

Then again, the cracker'd been high as hell.

Lamar took a bite, and there was a lull in the conversation. "Tragic news, about the massacre." Lamar brought up. It had been weighing heavily on his mind, compounded further by the sackclothed sun.

The vendor grunted. "Rich-ass folk deserved it."

Lamar took a look at the vendor. The man was old, conservative, and meant white when he said rich. "There were kids there." He mentioned, as if in passing. _And two hundred people_.

The vendor grunted again, this time with less disdain.

"They might be rich up in SIN Woods, but you hear about their police station? That wasn't the taggers down here. Maybe the rich folk do got some spark." Continued Lamar.

"That may be so." Said Ahmed. "And it may be that some have more spark than us. I heard that one man slew thirty just yesterday in the desert."

"Well, that one sounds like a myth." Said quickly Lamar.

"I wouldn't rush to judgement. You've seen the sky. We both heard of the 200 Massacre. Strange things are happening in Nevada."

Lamar nodded. The man was right. "And what role you think the Agency plays in all this?"

Ahmed packed foil full of cocaine, wrapped it around a hot dog. "I think they have the guns. And whatever's coming," he said, pulling something else from his cart, "we do too."

It was a magnificent rifle. "I'm sure you'll get your own." The vendor continued. "Order-Up is forgetful. Ask him for one next time you drop off your earnings."

The rifle was stowed, and Lamar's hot dog was finished. He crumpled it slowly, pocketed it to recycle later. "I never have packed anything before." He admitted.

Ahmed gave him a meaningful look. "Times are changing, son." He said. "You'd better start."

The man sat, cleaning, long after the round-faced boy had left. When the steel of the gun was a mirror, when the rag was worked thin, he found oily residue on the street. He wiped it onto the surface of the pistol, just to ruin the day's work.

The sky began to darken, and people retreated to their shacks, their tents, their safe overhangs. The man threw a tarp onto the street and lay on his back over faded yellow lines. There were no cars here.

You could only make out a few stars through the city smog. Today, with clouds hanging oppressive and orderly over the sky, you could see none. The man stared at the smoke, smog, and galaxies behind it, laying on the earth, nothing to shelter him from the coming storm.

He had a nightly chant, this man. It came the moment before he fell to sleep, as it always did.

His eyes were closing, fogged over by dark.

"I will kill you." He said once to the sky.

And the sky shivered.


End file.
